Filling In For the Skull
by Damagoed
Summary: The things Sherlock can do with John he can't do with the skull. Warning: Adult themes and general Bizarre-ness.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson lay on the bed trying to get his breath back. And at the same time trying to work out exactly what had just happened to him. Because if he had not been completely mistaken, and assuming he was actually awake, Sherlock Holmes had just come into his room at three O'clock in the morning and had a wank on his belly. And things like that just did not happen. Not ever.

The door had opened and naked Sherlock had walked in to his room. Then proceeded to pull the duvet off of John and straddle him. And then with a series of agonisingly determined strokes he had tossed himself off. Whilst John lay there. Unable to make a sound but the occasional squeak of discomfort as Sherlock sat back too far and knocked up against John's own neglected erection.

Not one sound, just Sherlock's steely eyes locked on John's and a look of absoulte determination on his face. John had the strangest suspicion that Sherlock was Sleepwalking, or in this case Sleepwanking?

Finally with a sudden sharp cry he had ejaculated all over John Watson's belly. All over it. He smiled and his last act before he got up and left the room was to lick a stripe from the Waistband of John's boxer shorts up to his chin and then kiss John once, firmly on the lips.

"Gorgeous" And then he left the room. Leaving a confused and slightly sticky John Watson to wonder exactly what else "helping with investigations" was going to include.


	2. Chapter 2

"Morning John." Sherlock was certainly not acting like a man who had performed an indecent act on his flatmate the previous night.

"Morning?" From the mantelpiece John could see the skull grinning at him smugly. He scowled back at it.

"Are you scowling at the Skull John?" Sherlock put a mug of tea down in front of him.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Did you sleep okay? You look a bit tired." Oh my God, Sherlock really had no idea what he had done the night before, or perhaps John had actually dreamt the whole thing. And he wasn't entirely sure which was worse.

"Yes. Fine. Slept fine. Bit of a strange dream that's all."

"Didn't involve me did it?" Sherlock smiled at him and plonked a plate of Sausage, egg and toast down in front of John. He had arranged them on the plate to make a smiley face with spiky hair and a blob of ketchup for a nose.

"I can't remember. What's this?" John prodded a sausage to make sure it was actually a sausage and not someone's finger.

"It's breakfast. You always cook. I thought you might enjoy being waited on for a change."

"Okay."

"I do know how to cook you know. I once had to watch every episode of The Naked Chef for a case. How's your sausage? "

"What?" Naked. Sausage. He was going mad. That was the only explanation. John Watson was going round the twist. Fortunately Sherlock had been distracted by his phone ringing.

"LeStrade. He's got a case for us. Well are you coming or are you going to sit there chewing sausage all day?" And really John had no decent answer for that. "I could of course take the skull, but he's nowhere near as much fun as you."


	3. Chapter 3

It had been three days since the "night time incident" and John was still uncertain whether or not it had all been some really terrible dream. That was the most logical, sort of, explanation, that somehow all the craziness surrounding Sherlock had filtered its way in to one of John's erotic dreams. Perfectly reasonable. Nothing to worry about.

John was tired. It was coming up to four in the morning and he'd just got home from the Graveyard shift at St Bart's. It had been a quiet night as corpses went, but even so he was desperate for a shower and his bed.

He was trying to be as quiet as possible in the bathroom, which was right next to Sherlock's room, and was also fighting not to be massaged asleep by the warm water cascading over him. He relaxed and leant against the wall. His eyes slowly closing.

They snapped open when he heard the shower curtain being pulled back. Sherlock was looking at him with a strange grin on his face.

"What?" But Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips.

"Shush" And then proceeded to lick his way down John's soapy chest and belly. John just couldn't help it. He pressed himself against the wall and closed his eyes as he felt the definite sensation of suction on his rapidly swelling cock.

His legs gave way. He was sitting in the bottom of the shower, unable to stand up. The water was beginning to run cold. Sherlock smiled at him and kissed him once, full on the mouth. John could taste himself on Sherlock's lips. And then Sherlock was gone, leaving wet footprints across the floor.

The cold water snapped him out of his stupor. He stood on shaky legs and turned off the water. The bathroom floor was completely devoid of footprints. From the top of the bathroom cabinet, the skull gazed serenely down at John with a rather- you -than -me expression on its bony face.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had a cold. And when Sherlock had a cold everyone suffered. He sat on the sofa huddled in blankets, a bin of overflowing, snotty tissues next to him and a table full of cold medication. He sipped feebly at the hot lemon drink John had made him. The Skull had made its way out of the bathroom and was sitting on the arm of the Sofa, looking concerned at Sherlock's sufferings.

John was rather relived that for a week his nights had been uninterrupted by Sherlock related dreams, if that's what they actually were. Up until his slight sore throat had developed into a neck full of razor blades, Sherlock had been uncharacteristically nice and considerate, cooking meals, keeping the experiments to designated areas, not shooting the walls. It was rather unnerving.

John made sure the heating would stay on and that Sherlock had fruit juice and a hot water bottle before he left for his shift at the hospital.

"Thank you John I don't know what I'd do without you sometimes." He smiled weakly from under his blankets. "What time will you be home?"

"About 11. Try and get some sleep."

John was out of the door and in to his cab when Sherlock threw off the blankets and stood up, albeit a little wobbly on his feet. He looked at the Skull, his original partner in detecting, amongst other things.

"Right then. " The Skull looked up expectantly. "What should we do tonight?"


	5. Chapter 5

John got back to a flat in darkness. He carefully clicked on the light, finding the living room empty and the sofa devoid of Sherlock. Finally, Sherlock had taken John's professional advice and got an early night. Which John was greatly in favour of for himself, as for the last few hours he had begun to feel a little bit prickly in the throat and sore around the eyes. He dosed himself up on cold medicine and went up to his room.

He didn't even notice until he got in to bed the Skull sitting on his pillow. It looked as though it was very comfortable, sleepy even. John rolled his eyes and picked up the skull. Two could play at that game. He would just take it back downstairs and put it on Sherlock's pillow, so when the great detective woke up he would be greeted by a bony grin. See how he liked it.

John tiptoed downstairs, shivering a little, and really wishing he had bothered to put on a sweater. It was a little chilly to say the least. He pushed the door of Sherlock's room open and made his way over to the bed. Sherlock was asleep, peacefully dreaming of catching criminals no doubt, or perhaps plotting the perfect crime, it could really go either way. John leaned over to place the skull on the pillow. And that was when a long, slender arm snaked around what John referred to as his waist and pulled him on to the bed.

He found himself divested of his pyjama trousers and a seemingly fast asleep consulting detective pushed his wide awake erection between John's legs. On some level John was relieved that at least he was sure this was really happening. On another level the whole thing was so surreal he was hoping desperately that he was asleep and just going mad.

The skull, from its vantage point of the second pillow seemed to be enjoying the show immensely. John made a mental note to lock the damn thing in a cupboard as he was sure it just encouraged Sherlock.

Suddenly Sherlock made a strange yelping noise and John felt something warm and sticky between his thighs. Six years at medical school, basic training, three tours in Afghanistan and at no point had anyone ever mentioned about what to do in the event of a sleeping flatmate ejaculating all over you. John felt that his education and experience was somewhat lacking.

He extricated himself from the arms and legs of the still sleeping Sherlock and crept back to his room. He had been in bed for ten minutes before he realised he had left his pyjama trousers downstairs in Sherlock's bed.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was obviously feeling better, if the whistling from downstairs was anything to go by. Also by the sounds of breakfast preparation. John was feeling decidedly worse. Cataclysmically worse in fact. His throat felt as though someone had rubbed it down with sandpaper and it hurt to open his eyes. He shivered and pulled the duvet over his head.

The door of his room was pushed cheerfully open and a dishevelled but still lovely Sherlock walked in holding a tray proudly.

"Breakfast in bed John!"

"Please leave me alone. I feel like crap."

"You look like crap as well. Physician heal thyself!"

"Shut up." John croaked. Sherlock perched himself on the side of the bed and prodded John in the shoulder.

"Well I think you should eat something. I've done eggs just the way you like them, soft poached. With salmon and spinach for extra protein and vitamins. Can't have you wasting away to nothing just because of a little cold." John shivered a little more and tried to sit up.

"And thank you for returning my Skull. I was wondering where he'd got to." Sherlock smiled at John. "Now am I going to have to feed you or can you do it yourself?" Sherlock was already loading a fork up with egg.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to be nice. As you are so fond of saying I'm not good with people. I feel it's a skill I should learn. I have a book. It said people appreciate being looked after." Somewhere in John's cold fogged brain a light bulb flickered serenely on.

"What else did this book tell you Sherlock?"

"It said people like spontaneity and to feel special." John sneezed. "Never mind John, I'll get you some orange juice."

Downstairs Sherlock poured orange juice whilst the skull looked up at him thoughtfully from the fruit bowl.

"I think he fell for it." Sherlock winked, and then took John his orange juice.


	7. Chapter 7

John was convinced it was the middle of the night. But he eventually worked out it was two in the afternoon. He felt a lot better. His head was less fuzzy and it was no longer possible to fry an egg on his chest. But he needed the bathroom.

His legs were still a little shaky as he tottered down the stairs, nearly falling over at the bottom. Sherlock, who had been lounging on the sofa, with two foot of leg dangling over the arm leapt up to help. He pulled John to his feet. On the coffee table the Skull was engrossed in a Miss Marple rerun.

"Steady John. You look a bit dizzy. Do you need to sit down?"

"No I need the bathroom?"

"Oh Right." Sherlock hitched an arm around John's waist and helped him to the door. If he had been paying more attention John might have noticed Sherlock's hand gently stroking his hip bone as he walked him along, but he was rather focussed on not peeing himself.

"Thanks. I'll be okay from here." John took a step forward and leaned against the door frame.

"I don't think you will John. Let me help you." And he was propelled forwards once more, with the firm pressure around his waist. It was only when he found himself stood in front of the toilet that he discovered he had a problem. A rather large, hard problem that was going to make it impossible to pee without it going everywhere. He hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed. But of course he noticed everything.

"Well at least we know why you are having difficulty standing up. You can't have any blood left in your brain."

"Funny."

"Well let me help you." And before he knew what was happening he was being pulled out of his Pyjama trousers by long cool fingers and pushed forwards. "Go on then John. Get it over with."

Once he'd finished a long and agonising ten minutes of uncertain urination he was really hoping Sherlock would leave him alone. He was actually hoping it was not really happening. Unfortunately Sherlock leaned in very close behind him.

"Did you enjoy that John? It's okay to say yes." And John passed out unceremoniously on the floor.

Sherlock picked him up. Out for the count. Quite heavy for such a small bloke. Probably all that Chinese food. No way was he going to carry him back up those stairs, so Sherlock dumped John on his bed and then went out to see how Miss Marple was doing. The skull framed a question with its bony brows.

"Yeah Once more should do it I think" Sherlock smiled. And Miss Marple decided it was all something to do with Mozart.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, safe in the knowledge that John would be too preoccupied to observe the slightly smug grin on his face. Almost exactly on cue the door of Sherlock's room had been pushed open and what he assumed, judging from the slight rolling of his gait, was a confused and sexually frustrated John Watson entered. Come for revenge. All through the power of suggestion.

John stopped at the foot of the bed. Sherlock could hear him breathing, taking long deep steadying breaths. Breathing in courage. A soft snapping of elastic and a slight hitching of breath: boxer shorts had been removed, slowly eased over a tender erection. The end of the bed depressed slightly and Sherlock felt the warmth from John's body as he carefully crawled up the bed. Crawled up Sherlock's long, naked frame.

Another hitch of breath as John paused arched over Sherlock, supporting himself on his hands and feet. Sherlock could feel the tip of John's erection just pushing against his stomach. A slight movement of the mattress as John adjusted his position, moving back down the bed slightly. Then the glorious moment when he lowered himself down on top of Sherlock.

Sherlock fluttered his eyes open, and was treated to a view of the top of John's head. He didn't have to see to know the expression of pure concentration on John's face. The movements were rough, and John was heavy, using his weight to pin Sherlock to the bed whilst he rutted between his thighs. Just as predicted. Every movement was both sensuous and menacing. It was delicious.

"See how you like it." John snarled through gritted teeth as he came in a messy series of spasms over Sherlock and the bed.

Sherlock opened his eyes fully and snaked his arms around John's sweaty body.

"I like it very much John."

From the dresser the skull looked on approvingly. The skull liked to watch. And Observe.


	9. Chapter 9

John felt thoroughly used. Completely taken advantage of. Totally knackered. Sherlock had just milked the fifth orgasm out of him in two hours and John was begging to be killed just to stop the endless short circuits going on between his brain and his body. It was like when you got food poisoning and you brought up everything but carried on retching into the toilet. Only with testicles.

"Please. You. Have. To. Stop."

"You were the one who started it."

"You were the one who wanked over my belly a few nights ago."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about. Although it is rather nice." Sherlock ran his tongue around John's navel. "Very nice indeed. "

"Stop. Mercy."

"I think it's too late for that John. I'm intending to get a lot more mileage out of you yet. I'm still collating the data." John thought he might pass out.

"I'm not enjoying this anymore."

"So you were enjoying it to begin with?"

"Bastard. Get off me." In a fair fight john was probably stronger than Sherlock, but not when said Holmes was kneeling on his arms, pinning him to the bed.

"Not until you admit you like it."

"All right, I like it. I want nothing more than to have you playing with my cock for the rest of time."

"Tell me John."

"Okay. You were correct in your original assumption that I was asking you out in Angelo's. Everything in my life is just a lie. I only joined the army to be with men. I didn't really like Sarah I was just trying to make you jealous. Now get off me."

Sherlock got off of John. Who immediately stormed out with as much dignity as he could salvage from the wrecked bed. A moment later Sherlock heard the shower running. He turned and grinned at the skull.

"Told you so. You owe me a fiver." If the skull had had a neck it would have shook itself sadly.


	10. Chapter 10

John sat in his consulting room, still trying to make sense of what had happened. He knew it had happened and wasn't some terrible hallucination by the soreness of his groin amongst other places. And he was thoroughly confused about it. Because if he was being completely honest with himself. He had enjoyed it.

Of course he had. Enjoyed every sweaty, grunty, disgusting moment of it. He regretted the shower. He'd scrubbed himself clean, but really it would have been better to have gone to bed dirty, still covered in the grime of his rutting and then woken up like that. Or better still just to have stayed in Sherlock's bed, deep down he was getting excited all over again thinking about how much he had loved the whole thing. Yes. Completely loved it.

And he wanted more. And he was going to get it. Whether it was all just another experiment. Whatever it was he didn't care.

Sherlock had thought John would return to his bed once he'd calmed down. Once he had wrapped his mind around the problem and realised that Sherlock had in fact done him a favour by clearing up his confusion. But he was disappointed to find himself sharing his bed with a very smug looking skull. So smug that eventually Sherlock had taken it and put it in the wardrobe as punishment. It still looked smug when he opened the door in the morning for a clean shirt.

And a very strange set of sensations were bumping their way along his neurons. Because rather than it just being an amusing experiment, for science and no other reason. He found himself thinking how nice it would be to do that with John regularly. Not all the time obviously because they'd both get very sore. But some of the time. If John wanted to of course.

It seemed all bets were off.


	11. Chapter 11

If the last week or so had been weird in the extreme, when John got home from work that evening he felt like he had taken a step of the edge of world into Lah-Lah land. The flat was tidy. Clean. No experiments. The table was covered in a neat white cloth. There were candles. There were wine glasses. There was the smell of rather good Chinese food cooking, or at least keeping warm.

Sherlock bounced into the lounge from his room. He must have just been getting changed. He was now wearing that really nice purple shirt and smelt of very expensive aftershave.

"Hi John. I thought you might like dinner. I got all your favourites. And I've bought you a present. It's upstairs in your room." With a growing sense of foreboding, John made his way up the stairs to his room. Lying on the bed was a rather nice and obviously very expensive peacock blue shirt.

He immediately looked around for the skull. It had to be up to something.

"John. Hurry up. Dinner's ready." Sherlock called up the stairs. When John walked cautiously back down the stairs, not wearing his shirt, Sherlock looked rather disappointed. "Oh. Did you not like the shirt?"

"Sherlock. Yes it's a very nice shirt. Why did you buy me a shirt?"

"I thought you'd like it. People like getting gifts."

"Okay, where's the skull? I'm on to the pair of you. Yeah that's right. Thick John Watson has worked out what the genius and his head bone are up to."

"Mrs Hudson is skull-sitting for me. I thought we could have an evening alone?" Sherlock looked a bit hurt. By his standards he was trying to be considerate and seemed to be failing miserably. And Sherlock wasn't used to failure. "I got that special Chow- Mein you like."

John softened a little at the catch in Sherlock's voice as he said that. After all it did take two to tango.

"I do like the shirt. Do you want me to wear it now?" Sherlock nodded and John hurried upstairs to change. That food smelt good. And so did Sherlock.

So good in fact that half way through dinner, when John had noticed that Sherlock wasn't really eating anything, but instead was just staring at him, he decided to try a little experiment of his own.

"Don't you like the food? I just noticed you've only eaten half a spring roll and three noodles."

"No it's nice. Really. I'm just..."

"Transport?" John raised an eyebrow and slowly began to unbutton his shirt. Then with a concentration Sherlock would never have believed he possessed, John got a tub of Sweet and Sour sauce and poured it all over himself. Sherlock sat transfixed for a moment whilst the sticky sauce ran down John's chest and stomach and past his belt.

"Dinner is served Mr. Holmes."


	12. Chapter 12

John was feeling rather pleased with himself. There was something extremely gratifying about getting a very clever person to turn into a dribbling idiot. Which had happened to Sherlock the moment John had upended Chinese food all over himself.

Very quickly they had both been naked and food and plates had scattered everywhere as Sherlock had decided that eating wasn't such a pedestrian activity after all. And once he had cleaned up John's chest and belly he went in for dessert lower down. John however had other ideas and Sherlock had found himself being thoroughly shagged on the dining table with black bean sauce used as the lubricant of choice. And John had got him good. And they had broken the table which registered as something of a personal best for John.

Currently the idiot formerly known as Sherlock Holmes was licking the remains of Sweet and Sour Sauce from around John's balls. They had moved the action to Sherlock's bed and John was thinking up inventive ways of using noodles whilst the great detective started sucking him off. If two weeks ago anyone had told John he would currently be enjoying the ultimate take away, he would probably have punched them. Right now he was focussing very carefully on the top of Sherlock's head and the exquisite sensations going on underneath it.

Sherlock moved his mouth away just at the moment John came, and went cross eyed as his balls rode up somewhere into his stomach and back down again. John looked down once his eyes refocused to see a very smug looking Sherlock, arms folded at the bottom of the bed. He was eyeing John up with a look that clearly said _"so what else you got big boy?" _ And the answer to that was _"not much." _ Especially if the amount of ejaculate spread all over John's belly was anything to go by.

John struggled to sit up but was pushed gently back down again as Sherlock eyed him up . The same expression he had used during his "sleepwalking" episode.

"Its all right John. You just stay there. I'm going to have pudding now." And slowly Sherlock began to lick John clean once more.


	13. Chapter 13

When John woke up he was sticky and dirty, covered in the remains of the previous night's dinner. The sheets looked like they would never be clean. John wondered if he would either.

Sherlock was asleep next to him and John felt the familiar pull in his groin as he decided to give the detective a little alarm call. John eased himself gently against Sherlock and then slowly pushed inwards. Sherlock was so relaxed, there was no resistance, hardly any pressure against John's hardness. Until he pushed himself forwards a little more.

"John? What? Oh!" And the ring of muscle clamped down. Which John took as his cue to start over.

"What do you like me to do most Sherlock? This?" He drew out and inched back in so slowly. "Or this?" Then he pushed in hard and rough. Sherlock grunted through closed lips. "What was that Genius? Tell me what you like."

"Everything." He managed to speak.

"Then everything you shall have."

John was aware of how very loud they were being. But he kind of liked that. Sherlock left him in no doubt that he was getting it right. Very right. As he writhed around in front of John, begging him for more. For anything. For everything. Until John Watson had reduced Sherlock Holmes to nothing more than an extension of himself. Something that he had total control over. The power felt good. Really good.

"John. I'm going to..." And Sherlock was over the top and into the no-man's land of Orgasm beyond. John followed very soon afterwards.

And then they were lying back wrapped up in each other.

When Sherlock finally released his grip on John's body, and John gently but firmly insisted he was going to the shower, his shaky legs took him out into the living room and towards the kettle. Something strange. It took john a few moments to place what was wrong. Finally the gears in his head meshed.

A very miffed looking Skull was sat on the counter in the kitchen next to some Tupperware containing left over Chinese food.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs and beckoned him to come up.

"Its okay, my flatmate's out."

"Flatmate?"

"Yes. Colleague."

"Right." He looked around the flat. "Nice."

"Do you want a drink?"

"Got any vodka?" Sherlock poured a double into a glass.

"Do you want anything in it?"

"No. Neat is fine. What time is he due back then? This flatmate of yours?"

"A couple of hours."

"Okay. I charge by the hour."

"Of course. How much?"

"Two hundred. An hour."

"That's expensive."

"I'm very good. I'm sure you'll think it's worth it. So what do you want me to do?" He started peeling off his clothes, revealing the strong body underneath. Sherlock swallowed nervously at this predator in his domain.

"I want you to f*** me. Hard. Make me come."

"Does this flatmate of yours do that for you?"

"None of your business. Now F*** me."

He was rough. Pushing Sherlock down on the bed, tearing his clothes from his body and pounding into him. But there was no denying it was fantastic. And exactly what he'd been asked to do. Sherlock wished he could see the expression on his face, but that wasn't included in the price. He banged three Orgasms out of Sherlock, whispering obscene endearments in his ear the whole time. Then he stopped.

"What was that noise?"

"Nothing."

"It's not your flatmate come back early? I'd hate for him to catch us like this. I think he'd be very jealous."

"Yes he would be. And he's an ex soldier. He has a gun."

"Doesn't frighten me."

"Really?"

"You still got half an hour. What do you want to do?" This time he took Sherlock slowly, facing him, but still with that air of controlled malice in his eyes which said I could really hurt you if I wanted.

He rolled off of Sherlock, closing his eyes very briefly, catching his breath. Then John turned to face his flatmate.

"Okay. Next time we do this. I get to be the client and you can be the rent boy. Okay?"

"Okay. And John? You are definitely worth more than two hundred an hour."


	15. Chapter 15

"Doctor I'm not feeling very well."

"Dear me Mr Holmes, what seems to the trouble?"

"I'm not sure. I've been feeling very odd since I got up this morning."

"Well I think you better take all your clothes off and let me conduct a thorough examination."

"Yes. I think that would be best."

"Now I'll just warm up my Stethoscope." The doctor blew on the cold metal and then pressed it slowly to each of Sherlock's nipples in turn. "That seems to be fine."

"I think the problem is definitely lower down Doctor."

"Have you noticed any discomfort in that area Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes. Quite a lot of discomfort actually."

"Well we best take a look then." He crouched down in front of the naked detective. "When do you notice this discomfort? Is there anything specific that triggers it?"

"Yes. When I'm in close proximity to my flat mate it seems to be much worse."

"Hmm. Curious. And is it just your flat mate this happens with?"

"Yes. Just him."

"Oh your flat mate is a man?"

"Yes. Does that make a difference?"

"To the treatment yes. It does." The doctor scribbled some notes down.

"But it is treatable. You can cure me?"

"I'm afraid not. There is no cure. But there is treatment. I'll write you this prescription." He scribbled again and handed Sherlock the thin piece of paper.

"Should I get dressed now Doctor?"

"I'd read your prescription first Mr. Holmes." Sherlock unfolded the piece of paper.

_Prescription: _

_1Amazing f*** to be administered by flatmate three times a day. _

_Dosage to be increased at weekends._

_Signed JH Watson MD._

Sherlock smiled at John.

"Right, now if we're done playing doctors, I think you should take your medicine Sherlock."


	16. Chapter 16

It was something John had never tried before and wasn't entirely sure if he was going to enjoy. And he was certain LeStrade was unaware of the use his handcuffs were now being put to. But, like so many things, if you didn't try them you'd never find out if you liked them.

John was naked. Laid out on the bed with his hands cuffed to the headboard. He felt slightly vulnerable. From the chest of drawers the Skull grinned at him in the candle light, right next to Sherlock's moisturiser and cologne, it was like the "Queer Eye" guys had done a makeover for Alastair Crowley.

Sherlock had told John to relax. He was just going to change into something he thought John might find appealing. John was running through various combinations of leather, denim and velvet when Sherlock burst in through the doors.

It was not what John had been expecting. Sherlock was wearing a suit, black converse trainers and glasses. And he'd done something very strange to his hair. He grinned at John from the doorway.

"What do you think?" John looked puzzled. "I'm Doctor Who. The one you like."

"Okay. Why am I handcuffed to the bed? Did I miss that episode?"

"No. I thought you'd like being rescued by the Doctor." John thought this over.

"So who am I?"

"That Jack bloke? With the Uniform." It really was not doing it for John. "Or you could be the bad Timelord. The one with all the paradoxes."

"The Master? Ironic as I'm handcuffed."

"I don't think you're taking this seriously John."

"I'm handcuffed to your bed and you are dressed as David Tennant's geeky little brother. Of course I'm not taking this seriously. Now take those clothes off." Sherlock obligingly stripped until he was beautifully naked.

"Okay. Now Sherlock take these cuffs off me and we'll do something else."

"No."

"What do you mean no?"

"I mean I'm not undoing the cuffs. " Sherlock pushed John's legs apart, instantly getting the reaction he was hoping for. "You are mine John Watson."

"Yes."

"And you will do exactly what I say or you are going to be tied up forever."

"Yes." John had gone from nought to turned on beyond belief in three seconds. Sherlock started to lick him up and down ever movement turning his prisoner on more and more. He positioned himself over John, ready to slide down onto his length. John's arm muscles strained against the handcuffs.

"So how are you at riding no handed John?"


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock liked to lick. He liked to lick John all over. Everywhere. And if he were being completely honest, John enjoyed being licked. Sometimes when they were out on a case, Sherlock would lick the back of his neck when no one was looking. Which just wasn't fair. Because sometimes they would be out for hours before they could get back to Baker Street and the privacy of the bedroom. And those SOC suits were quite revealing.

Sherlock also liked to suck. And John had never felt anything like the sensations he got running through his veins when Sherlock was giving him a blow job. Which he did at every opportunity. In bed, in the back of Mycroft's car, in dark alleyways, on fire escapes. Once in the bone storage room at St. Bart's with an audience of not one, but at least seventy three skulls watching. But then Sherlock was a bit of an exhibitionist.

Sherlock liked to touch. But he only seemed to like to touch John. Everyone else was treated with a cold disdain. But John was special. John's skin was soft and furry in places. John's body was just the right combination of hard muscle and soft yielding flesh. And John would happily lay there for hours and let Sherlock play with him.

Sherlock liked to play games. He liked John to dress up in his army uniform. He liked John to wear nothing but his white doctor's coat. He liked it when John pretended to be rough and moody. He liked to hide, so when John came home from work it would seem as though the flat was empty. Sherlock would leave the skull on the kitchen table to tell John the game was afoot and the game was that if John could find Sherlock then John got a reward.

Sherlock liked to win and he liked to be right. All the time. And when he didn't get his own way he sulked. And when he sulked John thought it was the sexiest thing on earth.

Sometimes, in the war of sexual one-upmanship there would be casualties. But never victims. John liked what Sherlock liked. And Sherlock liked John.


	18. Chapter 18

The moment Mrs Hudson chose to walk in just happened to be the exact moment that John had finally after twenty minutes of pounding on the kitchen worktop, finally ripped the orgasm out of Sherlock. Sherlock had spurted all over John's belly and had then thrown his head back and spotted Mrs Hudson standing there. She didn't look offended, knowing her she had seen worse. She just looked slightly miffed that they were treating her kitchen units with such wanton disregard.

"Er John?" Sherlock had, in fairness tried to tell him.

"Not now bitch. I'm not done with you yet. Shut up. I'm going to f*** you till you can't see straight." Early in the evening they had fallen in to a game involving Sherlock being a bad boy and having to be punished.

"Er John?"

"What?" he had roared. And then turned his head to see Mrs Hudson standing by the coffee table. John had not been that embarrassed since Harry had caught him wanking in his bedroom when he was thirteen. "Oh my God!"

Mrs Hudson smiled. Sherlock saw nothing really wrong with the current situation. And happily began a conversation as though he didn't have John Watson inside him.

"Evening Mrs Hudson. Can we help?"

"Sorry to disturb you boys. I was wondering if we could borrow Burke? Me and the girls are having a séance."

"Yes of course. He's in the bathroom." John was squirming with horror. If he pulled out he would be naked and covered in God knows what. If he stayed in he was naked and covered in Sherlock. He would never be able to look at Mrs Hudson again.

Mrs Hudson had retrieved the Skull from his perch on top of the towels in the bathroom, giving John juts enough time to try and cover himself up with a tea towel. Which didn't really work. Mrs Hudson gave them both an indulgent smile, and John one final look up and down.

"Well no wonder you scream so much Sherlock. Goodnight." And she left them alone.

"Ready to go again John?"

"Let's put the chain on the door first."

"Chains? Now that gives me an idea."


	19. Chapter 19

It was a fifty -fifty split whether John or Mycroft was more embarrassed. It was probably John because getting caught shagging someone's little brother/ sister was on the list of unforgivables, way up near the top next to fancying your mate's mum and not backing your best friend in a pub fight.

And of course Mycroft couldn't have walked in at a worse moment. Fifteen minutes earlier and they would have just been kissing. Ten minutes earlier and whilst things were progressing nicely they were still fairly innocuous. However Mycroft had chosen to enter Sherlock's room just as his baby brother was sliding up and down John Watson, riding him like he was in a rodeo and shouting some very obscene things about the size of John's manhood at the top of his voice.

"For God's sake Mycroft. Can't you see we're busy?" Sherlock was annoyed. John was laying very still in the hope that Mycroft would forget he was there and not have him fed to the Ravens in the Tower of London.

"Yes I can see that." Mycroft seemed to be taking it rather well.

"So what can we do for you?" Mycroft suddenly became very interested in the carpet.

"Some plans have gone missing and I need you to find them."

"Sorry. Boring. Much rather do this." Sherlock moved his hips a little to prove his point. John went cross eyed.

"Well I'll be off then." Mycroft huffed.

"Really?" John did not like the way that Sherlock had just framed that question.

"Really?" There was a note of surprise in Mycroft's voice.

"Quite." Sherlock moved back a little, releasing John's hardness and exposing him for the entire world, mainly Mycroft, to look at.

"Oh. I do see what you mean." And before John knew what was happening Mycroft's exquisite suit jacket was crumpled on the floor and the elder Holmes brother was removing his tie.


	20. Chapter 20

John found himself in the surreal position of being the filling in a Holmes sandwich. Sherlock to his left, Mycroft to his right. He had never been in bed with two other men. Especially not two other men who despised one another. And were now using John as the latest weapon in their war of sibling rivalry.

Underneath the suit and the stiff upper lip, Mycroft was rather attractive, a little taller and broader than Sherlock, but with the same careful bone structure and the added bonus of body hair, which Sherlock seemed to have missed out on. And Mycroft did seem to know what he was doing, as he was currently running a well practised hand along John's thigh and pressing against him.

Sherlock was currently humping John's other leg and whispering some downright obscene things in his ear. John in the middle of it was so hard he thought he might well burst a blood vessel very soon. There was something unbelievably arousing about being the object of desire of two very clever, beautiful men.

"Okay. One of you. On me now. I don't care which." John had had enough.

Sherlock was like lightening, but Mycroft was quicker and rather smugly straddled John, positioning himself carefully over the tip of John's erection and sliding down it. John was inwardly feeling rather pleased with himself. He had the most powerful politician in the world smiling like a cheap whore and begging for John to do him hard.

Sherlock looked a little disappointed, but then got that wicked, slightly manic glint in his grey eyes, and John found himself being treated to an extreme close up of Sherlock's balls. So that was how they wanted to play it? John began to thrust. Mycroft began to moan and writhe on top of him. And Sherlock silently pushed his cock into John's mouth.

Sherlock came first. Pulling out just in time to avoid John choking and replacing his cock with his lips as he kissed John hard. That did it for John, who suddenly found himself jerking and twitching as he loosed his Orgasm into Mycroft, who being the gentleman he was, returned the compliment by spurting all over John's belly.

An exhausted Mycroft collapsed sideways, wiping the sweat from his eyes. John lay panting, trying to catch his breath. And Sherlock stroked John's chest seductively and whispered in his ear.

"My turn."


	21. Chapter 21

Greg LeStrade had stood there transfixed for a good three minutes. Unable to move or make a sound as several thoughts washed up in his head. The first thought was how long it had been going on? The second thought was where the hell did John Watson put that when he wasn't using it? The third thought was about how remarkably flexible Sherlock Holmes seemed to be. He coughed. Sherlock looked annoyed. John Watson rolled his eyes. He was getting used to interruptions.

"LeStrade. This is not a convenient time!" That, thought Greg, was very much a matter of opinion.

"I'm sorry the door was open."

"What remarkable powers of observation you seem to be developing. Whatever it is it can wait."

"Yes. Yes it can." Greg continued to stare.

"Was there something else?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the silver haired Inspector leaning against the door frame.

"No. Not at all."

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock huffed and pushed John away from him, casually pulling on his grey silk robe. John Watson looked around frantically for a pair of pants. "All right, you have ten minutes LeStrade. Then you are leaving."

Sherlock sat down on the sofa, his bare legs sticking out of the folds of his dressing gown. John Watson, now wearing an ill fitting pair of boxer shorts that probably weren't his, put the kettle on. It took Sherlock a little over seven minutes to solve the case, and LeStrade was just leaving when there was another knock at the door and Mycroft Holmes entered, looking slightly devilish in a black silk shirt and a pair of indecently tight trousers.

"Hello chunky-bunny." Apparently he was addressing John Watson. "I got your favourite cheesecake." John looked even more embarrassed, if that was possible and nodded over to Greg. Mycroft swallowed twice as he took in the Detective Inspector.

"LeStrade was just leaving Mycroft." Mycroft gave Greg one last look up and down.

"Oh no Sherlock, I think he should stay." And it was Greg's turn to swallow hard.


	22. Chapter 22

John was knackered. Even by his own rather impressive standards he was all sexed out. In the course of two hours he had taken Sherlock over the back of the couch with a Doctor Who rerun on the TV. He would probably never be able to think about Daleks and hiding behind the sofa in the same way ever again. Then he had been subjected to the refined attentions of Mycroft Holmes and half a cheesecake. And finally he had just finished giving it hard to Greg LeStrade whilst the detective inspector took Sherlock from behind and Mycroft finished off the cheesecake. And he was feeling rather pleased with himself as well.

Somewhere in the living room Sherlock and Mycroft were having a post coital argument. It seemed they did that rather than cigarettes. Greg LeStrade was snoring on the pillow next to John, a slightly confused smile on his face. And John? Well John wasn't sure he would ever be able to move again. Only he really needed a shower.

He walked on slightly wobbly legs to the bathroom where he was greeted by the skull smugly sat on a pile of towels.

"What are you looking at?" The skull continued to gaze serenely. And John took a look at himself in the mirror. Yes definitely needed a shower, if for no other reason than to wash off the remains of the cheesecake. It took twenty minutes before John felt sufficiently clean enough to rejoin the rest of humanity. He was just stepping out of the shower when the bathroom door opened and Sherlock walked in, his pyjama pants sitting low on his hips. And John knew what was going to happen. Only he couldn't quite believe it. Until he found himself being pushed back into the shower.

"Sherlock. Please I have nothing left. I need a break. I'm not a machine."

"On the contrary John. All the evidence seems to suggest you are able to rise to the occasion." John followed Sherlock's gaze downwards. John was going to need another shower.


	23. Chapter 23

John was enjoying his day off. It was ten in the morning and he had got up to make tea and toast and then gone back to bed. The flat was quiet. Sherlock was out on a case. With LeStrade. Mycroft was away on business in an undisclosed location. John was left alone. Perfect. Because whilst he enjoyed sex. Really enjoyed it. He was getting a little bit tired of being used like a stud horse. And if anything, John was a bit of a romantic. And you couldn't really get romantic whilst servicing the needs of three people.

So John lay there relishing the clean sheets, clean pyjama trousers, and his belly full of marmite on toast. He thought he might get up in a bit and go for a jog round the park and then get the papers to read. And maybe go for a coffee. And most definitely not have sex with anyone. Not even if they asked nicely.

He was just completing his third lap of the park when his phone rang. He flicked the hands free button.

"Hello."

"Hi John. You sound out of breath. What are you doing?" It was LeStrade.

"Jogging."

"Right. Upright or otherwise?"

"Upright."

"Oh. I thought Mycroft might be back." He sounded disappointed.

"I would have hardly answered my phone if I was doing Mycroft would I?" John got a strange look from a woman as she Jogged past him.

"Anyway. Sherlock needs your help. Can you come down to the Yard."

"I'm all sweaty."

"I don't think he'll mind. I don't."

"This is about a case, isn't it?"

"Oh yes. Totally about a case." But John was not convinced.

He arrived at Scotland Yard, still dressed in his sweats. And was directed to go straight to the Inspector's office. Where LeStrade and Sherlock were in deep discussion over some Scene of Crime photographs.

"Ah John. Well Greg will just fill you in on the details whilst I..." But Sherlock was suddenly distracted.

"What?" But John was already aware of what. His traitorous penis and the rather revealing sweat pants. That was what. And before he knew it, Sherlock had them down around his ankles and was sucking enthusiastically whilst Greg went through the salient points of the case. Not that anyone was listening.

But Mycroft was watching. As he sat on board the Government jet, two seats away from the Prime Minister, he was staring intently at his laptop screen, watching the scene unfolding in Inspector LeStrade's office.

"Anthea darling?" he turned to his secretary. "Remind me to buy a cheesecake on the way home."


	24. Chapter 24

Mycroft Holmes liked to watch. And fortunately for him his little brother, who had always been something of a show off, liked to be watched. Now Sherlock never knew that it was Mycroft that was watching. Of course not. That would never do. But Sherlock was so wonderfully simple sometimes. And it had been very easy to fit a micro camera into that bloody skull of his. And Sherlock seemed to like The Skull to watch him and John Watson doing all kinds of wonderful and depraved things. Things that Mycroft would never have credited either of them with the imagination to do.

For example, John Watson had a thing about food. Well you could tell that by looking at him really, but he had a thing about having food eaten off of him. Which in a roundabout way was a good ploy to get Sherlock to eat something. And very handy for using up leftovers, Mycroft supposed. John also had a thing for having sex in the shower. Which was not so great for Mycroft because even with the skull in the bathroom, things tended to get steamed up, literally. And John also had a predilection for what Mycroft came to think of as SAS sex. In and out without anyone really noticing. So Sherlock would get jumped when he was least expecting it and subjected to ten minutes of John Watson's humping, then be left thoroughly confused whilst John went back to reading the newspaper. It all made for rather excellent viewing.

Of course the best times were the post case sex. Celebratory coitus. Sometimes it went on for days. Mycroft would be informed of his brother success, and then would get his diary cleared for the evening. Then he would settle himself down with a bottle of good wine and perhaps a few sandwiches, and a supply of Kleenex, and watch the fireworks.

Sherlock had solved the case of the Missing Marzipan in record time and he and John Watson had returned to Baker Street with a case of champagne, provided by a grateful Lord Gatiss, whose prize Labrador had been kidnapped and safely returned to him. Within five minutes Sherlock was slurping Vintage Moet from John's belly button. And Mycroft was wishing the skull was on the coffee table. Another five minutes and John was positioning himself carefully behind Sherlock. And ten minutes later Sherlock was thrashing about and screaming words Mycroft didn't realise he knew.

Sherlock was gone, completely, dribbling and incoherent with pleasure. Mycroft sipped his Merlot and reached for a tissue. And John Watson turned his head slowly towards the skull, smiled and winked.


	25. Chapter 25

It had started out as a simple exercise in decorating the tree. Until Sherlock discovered John had a thing about tinsel. John had a thing about a great many strange items. Like jelly. And rubber bands. And anything furry. And now Tinsel was added to the list. Sherlock had just been coiling some rather nice purple stuff up into a cushion for The Skull to sit on when John had pounced. It was one of those unexpected pounces that caught Sherlock off guard and ended up with him surrendering to whatever John wanted.

This time they were both naked within thirty seconds. And fifteen seconds after that Sherlock was being tied up with tinsel and forced face down onto the rug in front of the fire. Not that he was complaining but the resulting mess of Christmas decorations, glitter and pine needles did make the living room look like some kind of multiple homicide involving a glam rock band had taken place.

"John. Lubricant. Please." Sherlock managed to gasp out through a mouth full of tinsel.

"We haven't got any." John was pressing dangerously in to him. "Hang on." He looked around frantically for something to use before his eyes settled on the hamper Mycroft had sent earlier. Perfect.

Sherlock had just collapsed into a heap on the carpet, when Mycroft arrived. It was very strange how Mycroft always seemed to know when to turn up, almost as though he had the flat bugged? Sherlock made a mental note to check. Once he had been released from his festive restraints.

"John. Sherlock. Not interrupting am I?"

"Not at all Mycroft. Thanks for the hamper by the way. The Brandy Butter came in very handy."

Mycroft looked down at John for a moment, his eyes widening as he saw the open jar by the fireplace and his brother collapsed nearby.

"Please tell me you did not use Fortnum and Mason's Brandy Butter as a lubricant?"

"Yes."

"It's the same Brandy Butter the Queen uses." Mycroft was shocked.

"Good on Prince Philip. I wouldn't have thought he had it in him at his age."

"Not as a lubricant!" Mycroft looked as though he would explode. Sherlock was choking with laughter.

"Calm down Mycroft." John draped a string of tinsel around the tall man's neck. "I think you might need a Doctor."


	26. Chapter 26

Most of the time Sherlock resented Mycroft. Resented his very living breathing presence on the face of the earth. Mycroft had always taken things away from him. Had always been mummy's little prince. Had always been getting in Sherlock's way and stopping him do fun things. Sherlock hated him so much.

But every so often. Just once in a while Sherlock realised that the reason Mycroft was the way he was, what made Mycroft such a royal pain in the arse, was that he was jealous. And how terrible must it be to be jealous of your little brother? When you were the big brother with the power of life and death over nations?

Take for example the current situation. Mycroft had knocked on the door of Baker Street, dressed in his version of casual and had fawned all over John and been nice to Sherlock and then had rubbed up against John some more. And eventually because John really liked Cheesecake and Sherlock just couldn't be bothered, Mycroft had taken John upstairs. Sherlock should have been livid. Only he wasn't. Because Sherlock knew he only had to go into the room and click his fingers and John would leave Mycroft and come straight to him. That was what Mycroft was jealous of. And whilst Sherlock could hear his big brother moaning and calling out John's name and telling John he was the best f*** in the world, which was true, Sherlock knew it meant nothing to John.

What meant something to John were the long intimate nights of lovemaking that started slowly and finished in a frenzy of passion. The nights when Sherlock and John literally did not care if the world came to an end. Because they were joined as one and could ride the holocaust to the finish of time. What meant something to John were those intimate moments when one or the other screamed "I love you" just as they came. All the games, all the other people involved meant nothing. Just another type of transport.

Sherlock knew John was his. John never told Mycroft he loved him. Because of course no one would ever tell Mycroft that. And that was why Mycroft was jealous, and also why Sherlock was prepared, for once to share. Because in sharing, ultimately he got the most perfect way of annoying Mycroft, by reminding him of what he could never have.

It was good to share.


	27. Chapter 27

Through the ceiling of her lounge, which happened to be directly below Sherlock's bedroom, Mrs Hudson could hear the distinctive sounds of bedsprings creaking. And the occasional shout of encouragement from Sherlock.

"Oh God. John. Harder. Yes that's it!" And the creaking intensified. You had you give John Watson credit; he did seem to have a lot of stamina. And of course if the eyeful she had been treated to the other week was anything to go by, he was hung like a donkey as well. Quite surprising really- still they always say it's the quiet ones.

They had been at it for forty minutes. Not that there was anything unusual about that, some nights it was hours. The ceiling light swung gently on its pendant. Mrs Hudson returned to her Sudoku and sipped her Sherry. At least she knew Sherlock wasn't blowing her flat up, or shooting holes in her walls or dropping ash on her good rug. Doctor Watson was a very good influence. As well as being a fantastic shag (so she assumed.)

"Oh Yes John! Just there. Just there. Come on big boy." A little plaster dust puffed down. Mrs Hudson went to get her Dustbuster. She smiled to herself. She had always wondered about Sherlock, ever since she met him, whether he would ever find what he so very obviously needed. And of course she had been delighted when John Watson had limped in to his life. Not what she had been expecting of course, she'd always imagined Sherlock going off with someone who looked liked Errol Flynn, or maybe Alan Rickman. Or perhaps that was just her? She had certainly not been expecting Sherlock to pick cuddly little John Watson. But of course that was before she had seen him naked. And before she realised how very good they were together.

"Please John? Harder. Please?" There was a frantic fifteen seconds of creaks, followed by a shriek of "Oh My God I love you John Watson!" Followed by an almighty crash that nearly brought her ceiling down. Two minutes later came the sound of hysterical laughter and a distinctive "Oh Bollocks" from John Watson.

The following morning, quite early on, Mrs Hudson noticed a delivery van outside 221B, and two men in overalls sneaking a new bed up the stairs and taking away the splintered remains of the old one. John Watson was one hell of a lover!


	28. Chapter 28

Ten minutes after he had arrived home from Christmas shopping, John knew he was doomed. Doomed not to wrap presents or spend a leisurely afternoon eating Mince Pies and watching The Muppet's Christmas Carol. John was doomed to spend the next few hours/ days in bed with Sherlock. Not that he was complaining. Much. It was just that he really wanted to get all his Christmas stuff sorted out before, well, before Christmas.

Sherlock had pounced on him as soon as he got through the door. His carrier bags hastily put down and forgotten about as Sherlock pulled John out of his coat, scarf and flat cap. Then out of his jumper and shirt. Then Sherlock had shoved a rather cold hand down the front of John's jeans and dragged him towards his bedroom, muttering something about test driving the new bed.

The new bed was a lot bigger than the old one. It was super king size or something. And it was more springy, which was interesting. It was a well known fact that short men got better leverage, something to do with the angle of approach. Add an extra springy mattress into the equation and you had a killer combination. Which Sherlock had just discovered as John bumped against his prostate for the third time and Sherlock dissolved into the world's only consulting jellyfish.

John carried on for another five minutes before Sherlock was begging him to stop. Then telling him not to stop. Which was confusing. Then telling him to stop whilst pushing his arse back so far against John that his balls nearly disappeared into Sherlock as well. John felt he needed some further clarification as he made a tentative thrust.

"Do you want me to stop or carry on?"

"Yes. God yes."

"That isn't an answer."

"Yes don't stop." Sherlock managed to gasp out as he squirmed round underneath John. John bounced a little and adjusted his position, making a mental note that they should try having sex on a bouncy castle sometime in the near future.

Two hours later John left Sherlock passed out on the new bed, and went into the lounge to wrap Christmas presents. And eat mince pies. And look up bouncy castle hire on the internet.

Xxxx

In his bedroom, Mycroft cleaned himself up with a towel and looked thoughtfully at his brother's sleeping form on the CCTV monitor. Perhaps he should get them a trampoline for Christmas. They could keep it in Mycroft's garden. Then they could all have a bounce.


	29. Chapter 29

Quite how the key got broken off in the lock was something of a mystery. John blamed Sherlock. And of course Sherlock blamed John. But of course the end result was the same either way. They were locked out on the landing and couldn't even pick the lock because they couldn't get the broken bit of key out of it. And Mrs Hudson was out. Sherlock was all for climbing up the front of the building and getting in through a window. John was all for breaking the door down. The third, less violent and potentially fatal option was to await Mrs Hudson's return and borrow a pair of pliers.

It was quite chilly on the landing. And within a few moments Sherlock was complaining of cold and boredom. John could think of several ways to alleviate both of those conditions. Just not on the landing, when Mrs Hudson could walk in at any time, potentially with friends from the Women's Institute in tow. Absolutely not. But of course as soon as the thought had popped in to John's head, he found it impossible to think of anything other than pulling down Sherlock's trousers and having him on the stairs.

Not good.

He stood up and stamped his feet a little. Realising too late that his groin was now at Sherlock's eye level. He really was going to have to buy a longer coat.

"What an excellent idea John."

"What is?"

"Having sex on the stairs."

"No. I meant it. No. Completely. No." But the Holmes hands were already on John's belt and pulling him and his bulging jeans in the direction of down. John realised it was a lost cause and thought it might be okay as long as they were quick.

Sadly not quick enough as it turned out. Mrs Hudson opened the front door and was greeted by John Watson's bare arse at the top of the stairs, thrusting back and forth, and a pair of bony feet dangling off the landing that she presumed were attached to the rest of Sherlock. She stood transfixed for a moment before deciding to go and put the kettle on, and maybe have a sherry, whilst they finished.

John was so engrossed in ploughing Sherlock's furrow he didn't notice the influx of cold when the front door was opened. Sherlock did of course, but thought it was probably best not to say anything.


	30. Chapter 30

They had discovered it completely by accident. One of those serendipitous discoveries like Penicillin and Post-it Notes. And rather like Post-it Notes, once they realised just how well it worked, they were trying it everywhere.

There were several contributing factors involved. Sherlock's amazingly flexible spine being one of them. His ability to bend at strange angles that would have caused Herniation and paralysis in lesser men.

Then there was the fact that John was very strong. Years of weight lifting and rugby and carrying medical equipment for miles had seen to that. So it was quite easy for him to lift Sherlock up to the required position.

Then you had to add John's belly into the equation. Despite his muscles, he was a bit podgy around the middle. Which was just as well , because if he had the ripped six pack he was always trying, and failing to attain, it would never have worked.

And finally. How Sherlock's head worked. Because really, anyone else would never have thought of it. Or if they had it would have been dismissed out right as something a little bit kinky, and maybe not something you should be doing. Of course the world was Sherlock's Petri dish and all experiments were equally valid. Which is how it happened.

John was sat on the bed, enjoying the exquisite sensation of Sherlock bucking up and down on him. Both were naked and facing each other. They found if John lay back slightly the angle was just right, and Sherlock got a bit of friction from where his erection got sandwiched between them. Much better than it banging against the mattress for an hour. And somehow Sherlock had leant forward a bit, and his erection had pushed against and then slipped a little way into John's belly button. John went cross eyed. And Sherlock got banged like he'd never been banged before. And before either of them really knew what was happening, Sherlock was humping John in the naval, and John was coming hard into Sherlock. Then Sherlock was coming all over John's belly. And it was all a bit confusing.

And afterwards they both wondered why they hadn't thought of that before. And praised whatever powers were responsible for giving John Watson an innie.


	31. Chapter 31

Every so often, Sherlock would get so wrapped up in a case that he would forget about John. Completely forget about John's existence. And John, who's sex drive had been shifted in to top gear by Sherlock would have no alternative but to switch to manual, and take matters in to his own hands. He could of course call Mycroft, but he was horny not desperate.

Which is why on the 23rd of December, at eight o'clock at night, presuming that Sherlock had once again forgotten he existed, John found himself faced with a dilemma. Well actually less of a dilemma, more an enormous erection that no amount of freezing showers and thinking about Margaret Thatcher on a cold day was going to get rid of. John had no alternative. He was going to have to have a wank.

John was not adverse to masturbation by any means. But he always found it rather unsatisfactory. John liked the whole of his body involved in the operation and found himself lacking in the required number of hands to pleasure himself fully. He considered texting Mycroft. Or LeStrade. Or Mycroft's driver, who John had noticed smiling at him the other day. He urged himself to get a grip. Literally and mentally.

He removed his trousers and boxers shorts. There was something gloriously naughty about sitting on the sofa with no pants on. It would give him a warm feeling for days after. John began to stroke himself, enjoying the weight and hardness in his hand, occasionally tweaking a nipple or squeezing his balls with his right hand whilst his left was occupied with main show. He moaned a little. It was good. Not amazing, but good. He increased the pace of his strokes a little, wishing it was Sherlock's hand on him, not his own. Never mind.

"You might have waited John." Sherlock was stood in the middle of the living room, removing his coat.

"What?" John nearly loosed himself at the sudden appearance of his rapidly getting naked flatmate.

"I've been out all day trying to get you a Christmas present."

"What about the case." John was vaguely aware he was still frantically pulling on himself.

"Solved that before breakfast. But I've been round the whole of London looking for the right present for you."

"You must be exhausted." John panted. Sherlock removed his boxers.

"Completely. I need reviving John." And suddenly John found his own hand replaced with Sherlock's. Ten minutes later John knew he should have put a towel down on the sofa.


	32. Chapter 32

The world is divided in to two categories. Those who love Christmas and those who hate it. Those in the first category embrace every last fluffy detail of it, with presents and food and special kisses under the mistletoe. Those in the second category can't see why all that fuss gets made over one day.

John Watson was very firmly in the first category and had put a good deal of time and effort into planning a special present for Sherlock this year. It included amongst other things, the purchase of black silk sheets, special underwear and some rather exciting mulled wine flavoured lube. John hadn't been quite this excited about Christmas since he was seven.

Unfortunately Sherlock was in the second category. He had tried to look enthusiastic about the whole thing, and granted had taken an interest when John had revealed his Tinsel fetish, but really it was just another day. So he had hatched what he thought was quite a devious plan. If he got John distracted enough, he would forget all about the whole festive nonsense (and especially Christmas Dinner at Mummy's). It was a good plan.

However both ideas kind of went out of the window once John had grabbed Sherlock and dragged him upstairs. Sherlock liked the silk sheets. And he really liked John's tight black boxer shorts with the little stars on them. Although they didn't really stay on long enough for them to make any difference. And that new lube was nice and smelt of cinnamon. All very good. And then John had thought that Sherlock was actually getting in to the festive spirit, as he was wearing boxer shorts with Holly on them, apparently a gift from Mycroft, only Sherlock wasn't. But it didn't really matter because the end result was the same. John buried right up to his balls in Sherlock.

Mycroft had watched the whole thing on Skull-cam of course, with growing amusement and aching trousers. And finally Mycroft had given in to temptation. He was quite sure he'd been a good boy all year and wondered if John Watson would fill his stocking for him?


	33. Chapter 33

Sherlock had celebrated Christmas by spending most of the day in bed. And John had spent most of the day in Sherlock. And if he were being honest. He was rather sore. On his last trip to the bathroom he was walking like John Wayne. If John Wayne had spent all day shagging a consulting detective. And they were expected at Mycroft's in less than an hour. And John seriously doubted his ability to wear pants.

After a shower and a liberal application of Savlon to the parts it wasn't much better. He lay on the bed, whilst he'd been in the shower Sherlock had thoughtfully changed the sheets. They really needed changing. Sherlock's eyes had lit up at the sight of John, naked, clean and fluffed up from the shower.

"No absolutely not. Do not touch me Holmes. I'm still wondering how the hell I'm going to get my underwear on."

"Why don't you just not wear any?"

"What ? Go commando?"

"Why not? No one will notice. And if they do, no one will say anything. These people are friends of Mycroft's." John wasn't convinced.

However forty minutes later he had no choice as he carefully slid his trousers on, very glad he'd chosen the ones with the button fly, and tucked his shirt in. Sherlock said he looked adorable. Of course Sherlock looked amazing in his tight fitting trousers and jacket. His slim waist enhanced by a blue silk cummerbund. John felt a very sore stirring and looked down to be greeted by a very obvious, free range erection. He was going to have to think about dead bodies for the whole evening.

It took Mycroft thirty seconds to detect John's underwear status as he leaned over John's shoulder, pushing himself into his back.

"Going commando Doctor Watson. You are such a tease. How will I ever get through dinner? Knowing there are only five buttons between me and the best Christmas present I could wish for."

John turned to say something in reply but Mycroft was already talking to the deputy Prime Minister's wife about the champagne glasses, which were Louis the some-teenth.

"Mycroft hitting on you already? You really are a wonderful influence on him." Sherlock was enjoying it.

"You can shut up. It's your fault I'm in this state." Sherlock stepped a little closer, grinding his groin against John's rather tender nether regions.

"You can't say things like that when we're under the mistletoe." John looked up at the traitorous little white berries, feeling his sore cock rapidly erecting in his trousers and hoping his fly buttons would hold out.

"Upstairs. Now." He hissed at Sherlock. This was going to be a long night.


	34. Chapter 34

John was relaxing in bed. He'd had a nice shower, a stack of very good sandwiches and a couple of whiskies and he was feeling fine. And not remotely horny. He was very clear on that matter. Under no circumstances would he be having sex with any one that evening. He was going to just relax and sleep and enjoy his clean duvet cover in peace.

He had awoken from his sandwich induce slumber by the sound of his door being pushed open . And the next thing he noticed was a certain consulting detective, resplendent in green silk pyjama bottoms crawling his was up the mattress. He figured if he pretended to be asleep Sherlock would go away.

"Oh dear. You're asleep." Sherlock said theatrically. John had the distinct impression his cunning ruse had not worked. "That is such a shame because I really needed to do something about this." There was the familiar sound of Sherlock's silk pyjama trousers being pushed downwards. John cracked his left eye open a little. Sherlock was kneeling on the bed with a rather impressive erection hovering above John's navel.

"I will just have to take matters into my own hands." And then there was the sound of Sherlock very noisily getting himself off. A couple of drops of something warm and wet splodged onto John's belly. This was followed by a few more erratic erotic noises. "Oh it's such a shame to waste this on you whilst you're asleep John."

John opened his eyes and sat up, almost knocking the Wanking Detective off the bed.

"Oh for the love of... Will you stop doing that?"

"Sorry John. I didn't mean to wake you up." Sherlock said innocently, an effect ruined by him still having his cock in his hand. "But now you're up..."

John looked down. Not remotely horny had apparently been taken off the menu. Where was his self control?

"Okay. Just one. What do you want to do." Sherlock mumbled something. "What?"

"Belly button please." He said it like a little boy asking for more ice cream.

"Okay. But be careful. I'm still digesting sandwiches."


	35. Chapter 35

Sherlock was currently laid on a multi-storey car park floor with his nose almost dipping into an oily puddle. Quite what was so fascinating that it required such attention John did not know. All John really knew was he had lost the feeling in his feet, his nose and his left buttock about twenty minutes earlier. John bounced up and down a little. Sherlock glared at him and Sgt. Donovan smirked. Sherlock sprang to his feet.

"It's all very obvious. The assailant is a short, stocky man. Left handed. Military training, recently returned from a combat zone, who lives within five miles of here."

"Sherlock?" John coughed. "You've just described me. I didn't do it."

"Oh. And he drives a red Toyota Prius."

"Good. Not me."

"I suppose you have an alibi Doctor?" Sgt Donovan asked drily.

"Erm...well..."

"I'm his alibi. John's been with me all day." And John felt a rather possessive hand clamp its fingers on his shoulder and willed his body not to respond to Sherlock's touch. He counted to ten and thought about cadavers. It did the trick. Until the taxi ride home.

John hadn't really thought about why Sherlock was carrying his coat rather than wearing it. Or why, once they were in the back of the taxi Sherlock rather annoyingly draped the coat over John's knee. The penny only dropped the moment that John found his fly buttons being undone and long, inquisitive fingers made their way into his boxer shorts. The whole time Sherlock kept looking out of the window, a bored expression on his face. John was trying to pretend nothing was happening. That he wasn't rock hard and ready to explode with nothing between him and a fifty quid cleaning fine but Sherlock's coat. Sherlock did at least have the good grace to tuck him back in when they arrived at Baker Street.

John walked painfully up the stairs after Sherlock. Feeling a little upset and deciding that matters really ought to be put right.

"Right you bastard. You can just finish what you started." John slammed the door behind him and pulled his jeans and boxers shorts down to his ankles in one fluid movement. And it was only when he looked up he realised that Sherlock was actually in the toilet, and John was somehow face to face with Mycroft Holmes.

"I would be delighted Doctor Watson."


	36. Chapter 36

"Okay. Let's try something different shall we?" Mycroft and Sherlock both gave John blank looks. No wonder the country was in such a state. No one had any imagination.

"How different?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. John always thought he should have had a monocle.

"I'm not kissing my brother. Or anything else for that matter. Its wrong."

"Sherlock. You and your brother are both naked in the same bed. Taking turns with me."

"So?"

"Well I think it's taking the British obsession with queuing a little too far don't you?"

"What exactly did you have in mind John?" When Mycroft said his name it gave him shivers down his spine. He never realised before just how seductively Mycroft spoke.

"Well actually. I thought you could shag me whilst I shag Sherlock."

"Really?" Mycroft bounced on the bed enthusiastically, the freckles on his shoulders flushing a little.

"I'm not having you and him on top of me. You're heavy enough on your own John, without adding fat boy into the equation."

"Sherlock don't be rude. It will be fine. "

"Yes Sherlock. It will be fine." Mycroft was already warming lubricant up in his hand. He winked at John. "Ready Doctor?"

"He's going to tell you, you might feel a tiny prick in a moment John." Sherlock sniggered at his own wit. Mycroft sighed with as much dignity as possible for a man with two fingers up someone else's arse.

"I'm sorry John. Nanny dropped him on his head when he was a baby. Then repeatedly after that to try and shut him up."

"She never dropped Mycroft of course. But that was only because she was unable to lift him unaided."

"Do you two know how horny i get when you start arguing?" Both brothers blushed. John pointed at his ridiculously hard cock. "This horny. Now does someone want to do something about it?"

Sherlock quickly rolled over onto his back and moved his legs up for John to enter him.

"Good boy Sherlock." And John slowly slipped in and began to thrust. Mycroft took this as his cue to join the conga line. And a few moments later John felt Mycroft's anything but tiny prick picking up the pace behind him. "Bit slower Mycroft." John managed to gasp out.

Sherlock had never really noticed how handsome his big brother looked when he was concentrating on sex. All narrowed eyes and toothy grin. And he went cross eyed when he came.

Mycroft had never noticed how beautiful Sherlock was when he was having sex. All wide eyes and open mouth. And he went cross eyed when he came.

John felt Mycroft release perhaps a second after Sherlock, saw the look of amusement and triumph on Sherlock's face and felt Mycroft bite down on his shoulder. The good shoulder fortunately. Even during orgasm Mycroft was paying attention to the details.

It was about ten minutes of breathless silence later that Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow and asked.

"Could we try that the other way round?"


	37. Chapter 37

John Watson very easily passed the belly button test, as the boys at Sherlock's school used to call it. A fact that Sherlock Holmes found both exquisitely wonderful, and at the same time rather disturbing. Because John, when un-aroused and normally attired, looked, well, normal really. Sherlock had always been interested in other boy's penises. Purely at the beginning from a scientific point of view. And only later had he discovered far more interesting experiments you could do with them. But he could honestly say that John had the most mysterious cock he had ever seen.

Fact: John Watson was seven inches shorter than Sherlock, and nine inches shorter than Mycroft.

Fact: John's feet and hands were of normal size for his height.

Fact: John's nose was a normal size.

Fact: John's penis was enormous.

Sherlock had tried to measure it on numerous occasions, but obviously it was difficult to get an accurate reading with so many distractions. Sherlock had tried to compare and contrast. He had got a good look at Mycroft and John next to one another and had ascertained that Mycroft's was about three inches shorter than John's. So all he needed was to obtain Mycroft's measurements. Which was easier said than done. Mycroft hadn't told Sherlock to "f*** off" like that since Sherlock had caught him shagging Henry Baskerville behind the cricket pavilion on speech day. Sherlock thought it was a perfectly reasonable request, but subsequent attempts to measure Mycroft by stealth, including breaking in to the cabinet office and hiding under the table, were ill fated. On the bright side, the foreign secretary had thought it was his birthday come early.

But not knowing was driving Sherlock mad. He just had to have the data; otherwise his brain would go into melt down. Which is why he was creeping across John's bedroom at three in the morning with a tape measure. No one crept like Sherlock. He was a master at it. Or at least he was when there were not ill placed obstacles in his way. Sherlock swore loudly as he stubbed his toe on a box of books. John woke up. Saw his flatmate with a tape measure and rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock what the hell do you think you are doing?"

"Oh. Well. I was going to measure your penis whilst you were sleeping." Sherlock couldn't help himself. He just blurted it out.

"Why?" John wondered if he was going to regret continuing the conversation.

"Because I wanted to know how big it was."

"Why didn't you just ask me?" John shook his head.

"Didn't think of that. There's always something." Sherlock looked annoyed with himself.

"Okay come here." John beckoned Sherlock to join him in bed. "You want to know how big it is? Right. Close your eyes." Sherlock handed john the tape measure and shut his eyes.

A few moments later Sherlock had the rather pleasurable sensation of John sliding inside him.

"So how big is it John?" John leant heavily against Sherlock letting him feel his whole length and whispered in his ear.

"This big."


	38. Chapter 38

The Diogenes Club, it appeared, catered to all the needs of its members. And their guests. The dining room was as typically Leathery and Paneled as John had expected. Reminded him of the Royal Marines Officer's mess in Plymouth. The food was excellent, if uninspiring. And the staff were nothing less than attentive. Or it might just have been that John and Sherlock were sitting with Mycroft. John had never noticed how Mycroft seemed, without trying, to create a maelstrom of activity wherever he went. Everyone seemed to try and impress him. To catch his attention. And here where Mycroft was undoubtedly the king of the jungle, the power he exuded was positively dripping on to the floor.

John had never thought he was someone who was impressed by a person's rank. Of course he respected rank, understood it in a way that Sherlock didn't. But John had never been influenced by it. Never been turned on. Until now. So on one side of him, John had Sherlock practically fellating his cutlery, whilst he ate. And opposite John had Mycroft innocently tucking in to Steak and Kidney Pudding whilst the rest of the world revolved around him. And in the middle of it, John sat trying to eat his Beef Wellington, and ignore the terrible pressure that was building up in his trousers.

"Are you not enjoying your meal Doctor?"

"No it's fine. Brilliant."

"Really?" Just a flicker of those blue eyes. A slight nod of the head. Mycroft turned. Almost instantly a white coated staff member appeared at Mycroft's elbow. "Andrew. My guests and I are going to my private rooms. Could you arrange for dessert to be served there please?"

"Yes Sir. Will there be anything else Sir?"

"Just the usual please Andrew."

Xxx

Mycroft's private rooms were located somewhere amongst a confusing series of corridors, stairs and passages. John had the distinct impression that they were going underground. Trust Mycroft to have a dungeon. Sherlock had managed to look terribly bored, but at the same time John noticed there was a distinct bounce in his step. He had obviously been here before.

The private room's seemed to consist of a smart outer office. Large desk, Comfortable sofa, a couple of easy chairs and a bank of surveillance screens. But rather than asking John to sit down, Mycroft lead them through the office to another room. A bedroom. A four poster bed, black silk sheets, champagne on ice and condoms on a silver tray.

"Sometimes my brother has to entertain visiting dignitaries John." Sherlock was already stripping off his shirt. "I suppose it's so much more convenient. This way he doesn't have to miss any meals." Mycroft pretended not to be listening as he opened the champagne. Sherlock threw himself down on the bed, removing his last sock as he did so.

"Don't be shy Doctor Watson." Mycroft handed him a glass. "The staff are paid exceptionally well to keep their mouths shut. And of course if any one were to say anything, I do have ways of shutting them up permanently." He took a sip of champagne and smiled knowingly.

John looked at Sherlock, waiting for him on the bed. And he looked at Mycroft calmly drinking his champagne with a look that clearly told John Watson he had just been added to the menu. Then Mycroft placed his glass carefully on a side table. Next to the dessert that had been delivered prior to their arrival and slowly began to remove his jacket, tie, shirt, shoes, socks, trousers, and finally, finally his silk boxer shorts. Then he joined his brother on the bed. Two very clever, handsome men, naked. Waiting for one thing and one thing only. John Watson.

It took John Watson about fifteen seconds to rid himself of all his clothes and leap on to the bed.

"I think we'll leave Pudding until later." Mycroft said as he kissed his way up John's shoulder.

"God he must be serious John. That's the first time he's ever said that!"

"Can you not think of a way to shut my brother up John?" And very soon Sherlock had discovered just how difficult it was to hurl insults about when you had a mouthful of John Watson.

Mycroft contented himself for the time being with watching. But then he'd always preferred live theatre to television.


	39. Chapter 39

John had no idea why he was feeling quite so self conscious. He should be absolutely fine with it. It wasn't as though it hadn't happened before. He'd told himself he was being ridiculous. He was supposed to be a Doctor, one of the enlightened ones. It was for a case. He shouldn't care what anyone thought. Only he did.

The burly man behind the desk had smiled at him knowingly as John asked for a room and Sherlock had pretended to be very interested in a watercolour of a dog with a partridge in its mouth on the wall of the bar.

"What type of room would you boys like?"

"Anything. Whatever you've got." John pulled at the collar of his shirt. Maybe it was the clothes? That was probably it. Sherlock had insisted that John wear some ridiculous shirt. Some ridiculous shirt that belonged to Sherlock and only just about did up.

"I'll put you in number twelve. It's got a king-size bed!"

"That's great. Thanks." The palms of his hands were sweating now.

"You two been together for long?"

"We're not... erm..." John was slowly turning scarlet. Then he felt Sherlock's hand caress his shoulder.

"Three years."

"Number twelve? I'll get the bags." John slipped out from under Sherlock's hand and took their bags, wanting nothing more than to get to the room, lock the door and take that stupid shirt off.

"Ex- army. Still a little bit shy about things." Sherlock smiled at the manager, who nodded. Sherlock leaned forward's suggestively. "But the sex is fantastic. He's an animal. Do you do room service?"

"Certainly, what would you like?"

"Champagne and some sandwiches. Oh and some chips. John likes chips."

"Expect he has to keep his strength up." The manager had seen some odd couples in his time, but the elegant man in front of him, with his haunting grey eyes and slender frame, and the chunky little bloke in the badly fitting shirt just didn't go together.

"You have no idea." Sherlock winked and followed John upstairs.

Xxx

"You told him we were going to have sex didn't you?"

"No John. I did not. He may have inferred that but at no time did I say that we would be having sex. However I believe in normal gay relationships that is what happens."

"No Sherlock. In normal gay relationships, in any relationship, you do not announce to the world and its giant satanic hound that you are off upstairs to do it." John practically ripped his shirt off. "And I don't understand why I have to wear this stupid shirt."

"I like that shirt. It makes you look...sexy."

"Sexy? How many nicotine patches have you got on at the moment?"

"No. It does. All sort of bulky and dangerous."

"That's because its three sizes too small."

"John. I know you don't like doing this. I'm sorry. But it's very important for the case that everyone here believes we are together. Three men have already been murdered."

"Yes. I know. You're right." John took a deep breath. "Over it now."

There was a knock at the door and John found himself being pushed backwards onto the sumptuous king sized bed, Sherlock falling down on top of him.

"Come in." Sherlock called and then began to kiss John passionately, feeling rather pleased as he felt the front of John's jeans begin to fill out under him.

"Room Service." The manager's face from where Sherlock was laying was priceless. He quickly pushed a trolley in to the room and made a hasty exit.

"Room Service?"

"Yes John. I thought you'd be hungry."

"You ordered chips and champagne?" John had swivelled his head round to look at the trolley.

"It's all right, I used Mycroft's credit card to pay." Sherlock ground himself against John's groin.

"Should we not be doing something case related?" John pushed up against Sherlock and began fumbling with his belt buckle. Sherlock moved his hands down and helped John with his fly buttons.

"Well I think we've managed to convince the manager of our relationship, although he is still listening outside the door." Sherlock whispered. "So perhaps we should just make sure he's absolutely convinced." He eased John out of his boxer shorts and stroked him carefully.

"In that case you need to be naked as well." John was undoing the buttons of Sherlock's shirt when he felt Sherlock's lips gently working their way down his erection. And of course with impeccable timing Sherlock's phone rang.

"Sherlock's phone." John tried to keep the eager anticipation out of his voice. He listened. "I see. Yes I'll tell him." John switched the phone off. "Sherlock. That was DI LeStrade. He says you were absolutely right and they've just arrested the killer in Rochester. He's confessed to the whole thing."

"Oh Good." Sherlock came up for air.

"If the killer is in Rochester, why are we in a bed and breakfast in Cornwall?"

Sherlock smiled around his mouthful of John's cock and ran his tongue over its length as he released it.

"You can never be too thorough with these undercover investigations John. Now are we going to give the manager something to listen to?"

Twenty minutes later the manager, and most of the guests eating in the bar were aware that Sherlock loved John very much, and that he never wanted John to stop f***ing him. The manager shook his head. It was always the unlikely ones that had the most passionate relationships!


	40. Chapter 40

**Warning: Holmescest! **

Sherlock and Mycroft hated one another. That was what the world thought. What the world saw. But that was as far from the truth as possible. Sherlock and Mycroft loved one another. Really loved one another.

Mycroft loved his brother's slender frame and beautiful cheekbones and sarcastic smile. Sherlock loved his brother's broad shoulders and Icy blue eyes. But of course being English, with a strong sense of what was proper; they never did anything about it.

John Watson didn't believe for one moment the pseudo animosity between the Holmes boys. All the arguments and insults. It really was rubbish. Whilst John was not a genius in the realm of deduction, he was an expert in the laws of attraction. And he saw it. Every time Mycroft and Sherlock were in the same room. The little looks. The casual casting of eyes over the length of each other's bodies. And when they found themselves in bed, they really struggled to keep an appropriate distance. John could see the hands of both brothers just itching to reach out and touch the other. Desperate to make the connection. In a way John understood. When you were that clever, that brilliant, it must be nice to find someone who was your equal, even if they were your brother. Bu as it stood, John found himself as a sort of neutral zone between the two of them. Which was fine. Most of the time.

John had Mycroft on his left and Sherlock on his right. Both of them almost asleep and still vying for his attentions. All part of it. John knew he was a surrogate at times like this. Literally the man in the middle. He didn't mind, because he knew both of them wanted him. Needed him. Gently John moved Mycroft's hand off of his chest and slipped out from under Sherlock's leg. If anyone asked he had the pretence of going to the bathroom. John slipped on his dressing gown and waited.

Mycroft, still asleep, was rubbing his generously sized erection against Sherlock's arse. Had John been in the middle, he would have been getting it from Mycroft's minor government official. But it was Sherlock being pleasured by his brother right now, a rather endearing smile plastered on his sleeping features. In fact both brothers had the same smile on their faces. Mycroft moved a little closer and a little faster. Sherlock squirmed and moaned. And John found himself unbelievably turned on.

"Oh My God John!" Both Holmes brothers growled. And then Sherlock's eyes snapped open. This was going to be a lot not good!

"Mycroft! What the hell do you think you are doing?" Sherlock shrieked.

"I'm...Oh good lord!" Apparently words had just failed Mycroft as the dawning realisation he was currently up to his balls in his little brother hit him. Neither genius probably realised it, but they were both still grinding into one another. John sat serenely on the chair waiting for them to notice him.

"John. What are you doing?"

"Watching you two. " John innocently displayed his hard cock that he was stroking lazily with his left hand. "Brotherly love. It's quite sweet."

"John come back to bed this instant." Mycroft panted, his eyes narrowed to slits of cobalt as he concentrated on ramming Sherlock into the mattress.

"Yes John. At once. Get this fat bastard off of me." Sherlock ground himself into the mattress, and then pushed back against Mycroft, who responded by thrusting more deeply and angling his hips.

"Shut up Sherlock. Can you just for once do what you are told?" Mycroft obviously meant business.

"Stop telling me what to do!" John could tell Sherlock was seconds away from climax.

"Stop talking you little bastard!" And one more powerful thrust from Mycroft and Sherlock was gone.

"I hate you" he roared at his brother and clenched tightly, bringing Mycroft over the edge behind him.

"I hate you more!" Mycroft collapsed down on top of Sherlock. A few moments passed before Sherlock's muffled voice rumbled from the mattress.

"John will you get this lard bucket off of me before I suffocate?" John sighed and walked gingerly over to the bed, his erection bouncing in front of him. Mycroft rolled over, a rather smug smile on his aristocratic features.

"And how was watching Doctor Watson?"

"Not as satisfying as joining in Mr Holmes."

"Quite so Doctor, quite so." And Mycroft held out his arms to embrace John.


	41. Chapter 41

**Warning:More Holmescest.**

James Moriarty. Master criminal. Wearer of nice suits. Inventor of amusing nicknames for his enemies. Sherlock was The Virgin. Of course he was. Sex and Sherlock. Just. Did. Not. Happen. Ever. And Sherlock's big brother. The Iceman. So cool and calm. He probably did have sex. Lots of sex. To make up for Sherlock not having any. But it was bound to be boring sex. British Missionary Position sex with no kissing. No tongues. No nipple tweaking and certainly no small talk afterwards. He probably had someone kept in his employment for the purpose.

Which just goes to show how very wrong it is to underestimate your enemies. Jim Moriarty found this out to his cost. The hard way.

In fairness to him, there was no way he could possibly have known that the evening he chose to break in to Baker Street and surprise Sherlock with a lethal injection, would just happen to be Mycroft's birthday.

He had no reason, even if knew that fact, to suspect that Mycroft would be invited to his brother's for tea. Of course not. Holmes and Holmes hated one another. Why would they possibly be in the same flat? He was a little thrown by the balloons and the Happy Birthday banner on the door. But inside all seemed quiet. Moriarty had no reason to suspect a thing.

He also had no way of knowing about Mycroft's love of cake. Well, it was fairly common knowledge that the older Holmes boy liked cake, and occasionally indulged in a bit too much, and then had to go on a diet for a month. Moriarty got that from one of the staff at the Diogenes club. Not a big secret. But no one knew that Mycroft _really_ liked cake. Especially Birthday Cake. When it was served in a specific way.

Which is why, when James Moriarty oh so cleverly picked the lock of 221B Baker Street and tiptoed into Sherlock's room, syringe of deadly poison extracted from the anal glands of lizards in hand, he really wasn't expecting the sight before him. He dropped the syringe and squeaked.

John Watson was laying naked in the middle of the bed. Well naked except for a large slice of Chocolate cake arrange around his erection and a quantity of Whipped cream. Mycrfot was also naked. And currently attempting to blow out the single candle stuck in the middle of John's cakey groin. And Sherlock. The Virgin Detective, was currently singing Happy Birthday in a pleasant baritone whilst slowly sliding in and out of his brother.

Moriarty rubbed his eyes. This was hell. He had somehow died and this was what hell was like. It was much as he had imagined, only with more cake.

"Make a wish Birthday Boy." John smiled as Mycroft began to chew the cake from his cock.

"Oh My God. What is wrong with you people?" Moriarty shrieked and ran from the room, deciding to book himself on the next flight out of the country.

"That wasn't your wish was it?" Sherlock paused in his thrusting to enquire.

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock." Mycroft chewed thoughtfully. "Is there any more cream?"

"Give me a minute, I'll see what I can do." John winked. "Happy Birthday Mycroft."


	42. Chapter 42

The first time it happened. Or rather the first time Sherlock noticed it happen; he sat for a good thirty minutes staring. Fascinated. Then of course, he decided the data was incomplete and the only way to resolve this was to conduct more experiments. John gained a new appreciation for the hard work Guinea Pigs put in. At first John was unaware that he was the subject of yet another Holmes hypothesis. After about the third or fourth time he began to smell a rat, a lab rat presumably.

John just couldn't help it. Ever since puberty. He just had no control over it. How could you hold someone accountable for something their body did when they were asleep. And besides. It was perfectly normal. How many worried teenage boys had John told that to? The ones who shuffled in to the consulting room and you just knew by the shade of beetroot on their anxious acne riddled faces what they were going to ask. Wet dreams were perfectly normal.

Well perfectly normal for sixteen year olds. Perhaps not so much when you were forty and servicing the needs of a consulting detective, a minor government official and any one from Scotland  
>Yard who happened to be passing. John told himself it was all fine. He was just very virile.<p>

Which is why Sherlock spent hours whilst John was asleep studying what happened. It was like John was having sex with someone who was invisible. The way his face screwed up. The way his hips thrust slightly, the way his erection strained against an unseen orifice. The way he ejaculated. Vast quantities of come splattering over the sheets and John's belly. It was fascinating. And very arousing. Then John would relax with a silly smile on his face and continue to sleep.

Some part of him knew Sherlock watched. And recorded pertinent information such as duration, number of ejaculations, quantity of ejaculate etc. In a small notebook by the bed. But that was all fine.

John sometimes remembered what the dreams were about. Just sometimes, John would find himself back in school. There had been one boy in particular that John had quite liked. Well really liked. They used to sit next to one another in Chemistry. He had been tall, with glasses and freckles and ginger hair. He'd liked Doctor Who as well. And John vaguely recalled him being very funny. John's first crush. Perfect subject for his subconscious to turn in to wet dreams.

Which is probably why it was his lab partner's smiling face John saw as he ejaculated in his sleep, the intensity of it waking him up. The face from the past disappeared to be replaced by a rather annoyed looking Sherlock, who appeared to be covered in John's latest orgasm. Serve him right for standing so close.

"Sherlock. Everything okay?"

"No John it is not."

"Why. What's the matter?"

"Who the hell is Mark?" Now that really was going to take some explaining.


	43. Chapter 43

It wasn't every day you arrived home from your surgical shift to find your flatmate in bed with his brother. Every other day perhaps. It certainly wasn't a common occurrence for said flatmate to be naked and clutching a rose between his teeth. Or for the aforementioned brother to also be naked, except for a strategically placed strawberry cupcake decorated with a heart.

But then it wasn't Valentine's Day every day.

So really the sight that greeted John Watson on his return from the hospital should not really have been all that surprising.

"Evening boys!" he said cheerfully as he kicked of his shoes.

"Good evening John." Mycroft smiled smugly from his stretched out position on the bed. That man had the most obscenely long legs John had ever seen. Completely wasted on a bloke of course.

"mlo hon." Sherlock managed to say around his mouthful of rose.

"Oh for God's sake take it out Sherlock." Mycroft moved his cupcake slightly.

"...uk..ff..oo...at...nt..." John really didn't need a translation.

"Look I hope you boys don't mind but I'm not in the mood." John pulled on his dressing gown. "I thought I'd have a nice quiet evening in and watch some telly?"

"What?" Sherlock spat his rose out. Mycroft remained silent but fingered his icing thoughtfully.

"Sorry."

"But its Valentine's Day John!"

"Is it?" It was amazing how easy it was to wind Sherlock up when he had no clothes on.

"Yes." Both Holmes brothers replied.

"Well that's a shame then." John went into the kitchen and made a very noisy show of making tea, but kept one amused ear out for the angry whispers from the bedroom.

"I told you. That rose just looked bloody ridiculous."

"So it's my fault? I think it's more likely that John is put off by a pile of lard garnished with a cupcake waiting for him." There was the sound of a slap.

"It's more likely he's trying to work out where you start and the twig with the flower on it ends." Another slap.

"Whale!"

"Stick insect."

Just at the point it was getting entertaining there was a knock at the door of the flat. Mug in hand John answered it. A very sheepish looking Greg LeStrade was hovering on the landing. Wearing a very long coat and carrying a cake box.

"John. Hi." Greg sounded surprised to find John there. In his own flat. "Erm. Mycroft's not about is he?"

"One minute. Sherlock. Come here." Sherlock emerged, naked and clutching a stem that used to be a rose in one hand. "There you go Greg. Just in there."

There was a little yelp. Followed by the sound of a large coat hitting the floor and a fair sized detective inspector hitting the bed. Thirty seconds later there was another yelp and the sound of the most powerful man in England saying "Chocolate! My Favourite!"

"Are you really going to watch Television John?"

John slipped his dressing gown off, revealing the straining front of his Cupid boxer shorts.

"What do you think genius?"


	44. Chapter 44

Sherlock smirked to himself as he crept in to John's bedroom. Poor John. He was so exhausted. Been running around London half the night. Completely wiped out. Sherlock was quite surprised he had made it up the stairs to his own room. He hadn't even paused to make tea, just walked up the stairs half asleep and crashed out on the bed. Fully clothed.

Sherlock decided John would be a lot more comfortable out of his clothes. And Sherlock would be a lot more comfortable if John were out of his clothes. He set to work. Undressing a live body was very different to undressing a corpse. Whilst corpses were stiff and heavy and awkward, at least they didn't wake up and punch you in the face. The live ones were heavy and awkward and potentially violent.

The shoes presented no problems, just undo the laces and ease them off. Next the socks. Sherlock noted John was wearing the JHW monogrammed things that Mycroft bought him. Sherlock was really going to have to have words with his brother about showering John with gifts so he could shower him in other things. He pushed the thought to the pending file at the back of his head and continued to strip the Doctor.

The jumper posed the biggest problem. He had to sit John up against him and inch it off carefully, avoiding any wrenching of John's bad shoulder. Very silly things jumpers. Cardigans were much more practical. He'd suggest Mycroft bought John a cardigan next. A blue one to match his eyes. After a tense ten minutes John was divested of his Aran sweater and Sherlock moved on to the t-shirt. It was a close fitting shirt declaring that John had at some point been a student at somewhere called "The University of Gallifrey." Sherlock was fairly sure this wasn't true. But it was a nice t-shirt. It was sort of like a movie trailer. Showed you enough to get you interested without spoiling the ending.

Once he had despatched the t-shirt and had indulged in five minutes of navel gazing, John's navel, not his, obviously, Sherlock moved on to the final phase of John's disrobing. The jeans. Oh yes the jeans. Sherlock's hands were shaking slightly. He'd never got this excited unwrapping anything before, not even at Christmas as a child. Which was perhaps just as well, Sherlock was quite sure Mummy would have been livid if her youngest son had got an erection unwrapping his new Microscope.

He flicked the tongue of the belt from the buckle and began to undo the buttons. He was halfway down when he realised something was not quite right. Where there should be boxer short, Sherlock had struck pubic hair. John was not wearing underwear.

Sherlock took a deep breath and continued with the fly buttons, and was rewarded by a slap in the face from John's massive erection. Served him right for getting too close he supposed. Still it was better than a punch in the nose. It seemed John was not entirely exhausted.

John Watson cracked open one eye.

"Sherlock, What are you doing?"

"Oh, well you didn't seem very comfortable, and I thought your clothes might get creased if you slept in them." Normally Sherlock was an excellent liar, but normally he hadn't just , quite literally, got an eyeful of John Watson.

"Pathetic. Why are you fully dressed, and why am i almost naked?"

"Why aren't you wearing underwear?"

"Don't change the subject."

"Sorry." Sherlock looked John straight in the cock and mumbled something else.

"What was that?" John moved his hips slightly, causing the offending member to bob a little.

"I... erm... I..." It was quite pleasing that John had caused a total melt down of the Holmes supercomputer just by wearing no pants. Sherlock got up and quickly undressed.

"Is that better John?"

"Much. Now what were you saying?" But Sherlock was unable to answer. Mr Punchline had his mouth otherwise engaged.


	45. Chapter 45

Sherlock knew Mycroft was going to be sniffing around in a couple of hours. They had just got that awful treaty passed with the Americans and the French and he just knew Mycroft would want celebration sex later on. So predictable. And he wouldn't want just any sex. Oh no. He would want long passionate sex involving chocolate, whipped cream and John Watson. And he'd get all pink and sweaty and call John "Chunky Bunny" and make a mess on the clean sheets. And John would go all cross eyed and call Mycroft "M" and start gibbering about Aston Martins. And Sherlock would be expected to watch. Or join in. Or both.

And that was just not on. Sherlock bolted the door.

Then put a chair up against it.

Then turned out all the lights.

Then he realised John was not home yet and effectively he had locked John out of the flat as well. Which meant John was potentially on the same side of the door as Mycroft. Which was many levels of not good.

Sherlock turned the lights back on and moved the chair. And heard the noise outside the door. He froze and slid the bolt back silently. Cursing himself for not noticing John going out. He listened. The creak of the floorboard was too heavy for John. And John had a key. He wouldn't wait quietly. The creak was too light for Mycroft and Mycroft wouldn't wait quietly either. He'd bang on the door with his Umbrella of Death demanding entry. Before bursting into the flat, wanting to know where john was and demanding entry.

Not John. Not Mycroft. Sherlock grasped the fire poker, which happened to be by the front door and in one swift movement opened the door and dragged the figure who had been skulking on the landing into the flat.

Greg LeStrade looked surprised. Not quite as surprised as Sherlock who deduced very quickly that the Detective Inspector wasn't wearing trousers. Or pants. Or a shirt. Just a long overcoat, shoes, socks and a slightly forced grin.

"LeStrade!"

"Sherlock!"

"You have no clothes on."

"Still can't get anything past you, can I?"

"Why are you on my landing with no clothes on?"

"Your brother told me to meet him here. He was just collecting John from Bart's when he rang. And something about going to Tesco's and Cheesecake? He made it very clear clothing was not necessary."

Sherlock looked down at the silver haired detective currently pinned between his legs. And then at the silver haired detectives credentials, currently poking through the gap in the overcoat. For the first time Sherlock noticed that Gregory LeStrade's pubic hair was also grey and spiky. It was rather like looking at a pornographic hedgehog.

"Mycroft may be some time. He can be very indecisive when it comes to choosing cake." Sherlock release his grip on LeStrade slightly.

"Oh. That is a shame." Brown eyes looked up into Silver. Greg looked very disappointed.

"Yes. Perhaps I can keep you entertained until he arrives. Gregory." Sherlock imitated his brother's vowels almost perfectly, drawing the tiniest upwards thrust of LeStrade's love-truncheon. He slowly began to undo his tight suit trousers as Greg divested himself of his overcoat.

Ten minutes later, when Mycroft and John arrived, with a large toffee-banana Cheesecake in tow they were greeted by the open door of 221B Baker Street and one Consulting Detective riding Scotland Yard's finest.

It seemed for the time being the Policeman's lot was indeed a happy one...

(to be continued...)


	46. Chapter 46

John Watson looked through the open door of 221B Baker Street at the vision of debauchery laid out before him. To his right he heard the sound of the British Government undoing its trousers. Sherlock had Detective Inspector LeStrade pinned face down on the floor and was making a concerted effort to bust him through the ceiling in to Mrs Hudson's kitchen. She wouldn't appreciate it. She had the girls round for an evening of Mr. Darcy. LeStrade had his eyes closed and a look of blissful resignation on his features.

Somehow John decided this was just not on. Sherlock was his. You had to ask permission to share him. And you certainly didn't start without John being there. It was just bad manners. He turned to voice this concern to Mycroft only to discover he wasn't there. The elder Mr Holmes was in fact perched on the edge of the sofa, minus trousers, cheesecake in one hand and cock in the other, clearly settling in for an evening's viewing.

On the floor Sherlock grunted a little and adjusted his angle of approach raking across some sensitive inner parts of Greg that caused the policeman to curl up his toes and push back harder against Sherlock. John had seen quite enough.

"Oi! Genius?" John slammed the door behind him. Sherlock's head snapped round and he ceased his thrusting. Oblivious to the conversation going on behind him, Greg continued pushing back.

"Yes John?" Sherlock tried to look cool and cheek-bony. Without the coat it just didn't work.

"Lot not good Sherlock. And you. Oi? Inspector Clueless. My Boyfriend! Not yours. Mine." John noticed out of the corner of his eye Mycroft was still tugging enthusiastically at himself. "Right. Sherlock. Bedroom now." Sherlock meekly obeyed.

"Sorry John."

"What about me?" Greg looked rather dejected and extremely frustrated. John didn't really blame him. Well actually he did.

"Not my division Greg." And John was gone after Sherlock. There was silence for a few moments broken by the sound of John Watson saying "My Cock. Your arse. Right now." And some very enthusiastic springing of the mattress.

Greg lay there for a moment. Rather unsure what to do, and then he suddenly felt himself being filled by a generously sized erection as Mycroft muttered to himself.

"Do I have to clean up after you every time Sherlock?"


	47. Chapter 47

**WARNING: HOLMESCEST BY REQUEST**.

It had been one of those days. Well every day was one of those days really, but that's what you got when you let the political equivalent of Gilbert and George run the country. Mycroft finally returned home at midnight. An early finish by his standards, unless you took in to account that he hadn't been home for three days. He had a mental to do list. The top three items on which were:

Have a very long hot bath

Have a very long wank in the hot bath

Eat an entire tub of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food in the hot bath

Although not necessarily in that order. He'd often thought how nice it would be to have someone waiting when he got home. But that did not happen for the Mycrofts of this world. Relationships were for ordinary people. For people who could guarantee that their lack of imagination meant they would always be home at the same time every day, and knew which evenings they were free to have dinner and that sort of thing. Ordinary people. Normal people. Not him.

He sighed and slid himself into the steamy depths of his bath, allowing the hot water to caress his tired muscles. Yes that was more like it. He reached for the Ice Cream. There was something so very decadent about eating Ice Cream in the bath. Or there would have been if the spoon had not suddenly disappeared. Mycroft pushed his soggy hair out of his eyes, the curls he carefully straightened out every morning just beginning to form. He scowled and looked around the bathroom.

"Sherlock! Give it back you little bastard." He waited. There was silence. "Oh dear. In that case if I can't eat my Ice Cream I shall just have to play with myself instead." He said it loudly and then with much splashing and moaning began to have the most theatrical wank of his life. Sherlock held out for five minutes. Something of a personal best. But eventually he stepped out from the shower cubicle. Naked and sheepishly holding a spoon.

"That is absolutely disgusting Mycroft."

"You took my spoon. What was I to do Brother Dear?"

"At your age Mycroft? Read a book." Sherlock was now perched on the edge of the bath, trailing his fingers in the warm water.

"Do I take it Dr Watson isn't going to join you in interrupting my ablutions?"

"He's in Prague on a friend's Stag Do." Sherlock bit his bottom lip. "And wanking in a bath like a teenage hippopotamus does not count as ablutions. Brother Dear!"

A few moments of dripping silence.

"Are you going to get in then? Or are you going to sit there shivering?" Mycroft scooted to one side and Sherlock lowered himself in. "There now isn't that better? Now give me my spoon back before I drown you."

Another silence broken only by the gushing of the tap as Mycroft added more hot water.

"Mycroft? Do you think there's something wrong with us?" Sherlock dug the spoon into the soft Ice Cream and held it out for his brother to try. Mycroft leaned back against his brother's lean, wet body, feeling Sherlock's underwater arousal bump against him and feeling his own begin to grow as his brother pushed another spoon loaded with Ice Cream into his mouth.

"No Sherlock. There is nothing wrong with us at all. It's everyone else."


	48. Chapter 48

**Happy Birthday Tropicwhale.**

"Right John. In here." Sherlock dragged him through the doorway of the Oxford Street Store.

"This is for a case isn't it?" John looked doubtfully at some of the point of sale displays.

"Of course John." Sherlock sounded sincere. Which usually meant he was lying through his teeth. A perky sales assistant had started to talk to Sherlock whilst John busied himself with looking at the floor. There wasn't anywhere else you could decently look really. She had given John a couple of appraising glances, and Sherlock had made a series of complicated gestures with his hands that John really did not want to know about. Ten minutes later they had left the store, Sherlock looking rather pleased with himself and clutching a large carrier bag.

A carrier bag that proclaimed to the entire Universe where they had just been shopping. But it was fine. It was for a case.

John was snoozing. Sherlock had been scarily nice and insisted they go out for dinner. And had then insisted John had eaten rather a lot, which always made him sleepy. Apparently that was to do with the case as well. And so it seemed was John being stripped to his boxer shorts and laid out on the bed. All vital to Sherlock's investigations.

He'd probably been asleep for an hour when the door of his room was opened. At first everything seemed normal. Well normal by the standards of 221b Baker Street. Sherlock was dressed in his suit, the jacket buttoned up, he looked very sexy in that suit, John thought to himself. Especially with the make-up.

Then his brain hiccupped. Make-up?

"Sherlock are you wearing eyeliner?"

"Yes John." He fluttered his eyelashes and unbuttoned his jacket. John's brain stuttered again.

"And you're wearing a...oh my dear lord." Black. Laces. Leather bits.

"Yes John." The jacket was dropped on the floor, and apparently the trousers were next.

"And you're not wearing underwear?" John watched fascinated as Sherlock's erection sprang out of his trousers.

"Your powers of observation are coming along nicely John." Sherlock strutted towards him. John Watson found himself being straddled and divested of his boxers. "Now John. Just think of this as an experiment."

"Experiment?" John Watson, the horniest lab rat in the world, that was all he could think of.

"Yes John." Sherlock changed his position slightly, giving John a fuller view of his body and the corset it was squeezed into. Impossibly tight. So tight in fact that Sherlock's lean pectorals were mashed together in a rough approximation of cleavage. John's head almost exploded. Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Emaciated, had boobs! And really there was only one thing John could do when faced with The World's Only Consulting Décolletage.

The look on Sherlock's face was priceless. He'd obviously not been expecting quite that reaction. Or maybe he had not been expecting to be manhandled on top of John, or the subsequent twenty minutes of frenzied thrusting, ejaculation, and further thrusting. Or maybe he was a bit upset because that corset was going to need a serious clean.

"So" John panted "Was your experiment a success?"

"Not the result I was expecting." Sherlock undid the tight lacing, looking with disbelief at his gunky fingers.

"Do you need more data?" John gave a tentative thrust between Sherlock's thighs.

"You can never have too much data John." He dropped the corset on the floor. The laces had left red marks all across his chest and stomach.

"Perhaps we could get another subject in. Just as a control?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. Then opened wide as John slid inside him.

Just before he switched his concentration to the matter in hand, John couldn't help but wonder what sort of cleavage he could get off on if he could persuade Mycroft to wear that corset.


	49. Chapter 49

John awoke to the smell of bacon frying and the sound of multiple Holmes arguing. It was Saturday. John carefully pulled on his pyjama trousers and padded out into the Living room. The table was laid for breakfast and in the kitchen there was the unlikely sight of Mycroft in jeans and a pink checked shirt moving sausages around under the grill whilst Sherlock, wrapped in just a towel, shouted at him. Well not so unlikely really.

John watched, fascinated. Sherlock was stood behind his brother in the narrow galley kitchen, and all the time he was hurling abuse at Mycroft he never once took his eyes off of his big brother's jean-clad arse.

"...so you just barge in here of a morning and make breakfast. What are you trying to do? Make John fat like you?"

"Give it a rest Sherlock." Mycroft prodded a sausage with a fork and turned his attention to the frying pan full of bacon. "It's Saturday. There's nothing like a nice cooked breakfast to start the weekend."

"Well you'd know." Sherlock's pale skin looked slightly flushed. John noticed that he had taken a step closer to his brother. Mycroft flipped the bacon over, ignoring his brother. Surely he must have noticed just how close Sherlock was standing to him.

"Are you just jealous because of what a terrible cook you are? It shouldn't actually be possible to burn water Sherlock." Mycroft slid the bacon onto a plate and began breaking eggs into the pan with one hand in what was obviously a well practised movement. The eggs spluttered a little in the pan. Sherlock did the same behind him.

"Well one only has to look at the impressive size of your backside to know what a master chef you are, Tubster. " Sherlock was still staring. Mycroft ignored him for a full two minutes. Then he turned the hob off and spun around to face his brother. John held his breath. This was going to be good.

"And yet you can't take your eyes off of me." Mycroft was slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

"I was just wondering where you go to get jeans in that size." The front of Sherlock's towel seemed to be taking the strain now, as Sherlock slowly undid his brother's belt and then undid the button fly. He pushed Mycroft against the kitchen units and pressed himself up close.

"Does this mean you don't want breakfast Sherlock dear?"

"It means I want you. I want you to feed me." Sherlock dropped to his knees, pulling Mycroft's jeans and boxer shorts down to the floor as he went. John had seen quite enough.

"Excuse me?" John wasn't exactly annoyed. There was a whole different set of rules to apply when it came to S & M as the two brothers were known in John's head. Not exactly annoyed, but he did hate to see good food go to waste.

"Good Morning John." Mycroft , ever the diplomat, managed to sound like a man who's little brother wasn't currently sucking him off. "How do you like your eggs?"

"Like my men!" John smiled seductively at Mycroft. Sherlock choked and paused in his fellating. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

"Surely not John?" Sherlock took a good long look at his brother. "You don't like your eggs dripping with fat and well passed their use by date?"

Mycroft grabbed hold of his brother's curls and forced him back to his previous task.

"No Sherlock, he likes them like you. Over-easy."


	50. Chapter 50

Despite having all the windows open and wearing nothing but a pair of the briefest of boxer shorts, which barely kept everything inside, John Watson was boiling. He had forsaken tea in favour of several pints of orange squash. The temperature continued to soar. Sherlock perspired delicately in his sheet. As night came around the unexpected heat wave continued.

"This is just not funny anymore." John took a sip of his squash. "We have to find some way to cool down."

"Mycroft has a swimming pool."

"What?" John could not believe Sherlock had been keeping that information to himself all day.

"Yes. In his garden. I say garden, it's more like a landscaped field really."

"Do you think he'd mind if we used it?"

"Only if he finds out."

Half an hour and a speedy taxi ride later, John was sinking into the tepid depths of Mycroft's pool. And five minutes later Sherlock was sinking in beside him. Naked.

"Really John. There's no need for swimming trunks. Who's going to see?" He had a point. The pool was situated right at the bottom of the garden, shielded from the house by a row of ornamental conifers. John slipped his shorts off and threw them out of the pool. They landed with a soggy splat.

Two minutes after that Sherlock disappeared under the water.

John was impressed. He had no idea Sherlock could hold his breath for quite so long.

The pool had underwater lighting, just as well as the security lights hadn't come on. Strange really. But then John really didn't care all that much as he was currently being used as a snorkel. Sherlock came up briefly for air, his dark curls flattened to his head. He took a deep breath and submerged once more. John had never considered just how difficult it might be to ejaculate and tread water at the same time. When he'd done his Bronze swimming medal they had failed to mention it. He nearly drowned as suddenly his head sank below the water.

Sherlock pulled him, gasping, to side of the pool. Once John had recovered and Sherlock had spat his mouthful of chlorinated come into the water, Sherlock smiled evilly.

"I do hope Mycroft's filtration system is working. I would so hate to think of my poor brother and his guests swimming around in...Well you know!" John did know. There was a distinctive click and all the security lights snapped on. But instead of a be-suited Mycroft Holmes striding down the garden to find, John was greeted by the sight of a naked Mycroft Holmes, elegantly stretched out on a sun lounger by the pool. On the lounger next to him was a gently snoring Inspector LeStrade. Both men were still a little damp.

"Good evening little brother. I hope the filters are working as well." He looked significantly at the sleeping policeman. Sherlock's eyes widened as he looked down at the water.

John didn't think he had ever seen anyone get out of a pool so quickly.

"I need a shower. Right now!" Sherlock stormed off towards the house. Naked.

"Oh and Doctor Watson. Next time I'd try the shallow end if I were you."


End file.
